


Perfectly Stupid Ideas

by Fareeq



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Humor, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fareeq/pseuds/Fareeq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Shaun didn't want a relatiosnhip. He neither had the time nor the energy to find 'someone special'.When some crazed loon literally drops from the sky and starts trying to win his affection, he might reconsider it. But then again, there's several odd things about him that don't make sense. Like his ridiculous penchant for Twilight.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. The Knight Allegory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaun didn't want a relatiosnhip. He neither had the time nor the energy to find 'someone special'.When some crazed loon literally drops from the sky and starts trying to win his affection, he might reconsider it. But then again, there's several odd things about him that don't make sense. Like his ridiculous penchant for Twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a nice place. I wonder how many people will find me here...

The library of the University of Chicago was mostly devoid of students, most if not all of them getting ready for their weekend. Some of the alumni were already submerged in parties, most definitely too drunk to care about books and avoiding any activities that required using more than two neurons at a time.

Such was not the case for one Shaun Hastings as he flipped through a rather large tome, skimming through the words to find the right material for his thesis. No, adding more pages for that extra credit the teacher had told them could be acquired was not necessary in his case, but Shaun had always shot for the top and this would not be the exception. Adding a few details to his twenty-five page work was just him striving for top of the class.

Rebecca called it being an anal overachiever.

Regardless, there was quite nothing compared to spending your evening in the quiet solitude of a library, searching in books and clips what you could have found in the internet. Except he didn't fancy copying and pasting some other poorly done paper and getting a mediocre grade, thank you very much.

The speakers in the library told anyone still in it that there were five minutes left until closing time. Shaun gave a gruff hum and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, lightly pushing the glasses upwards. Setting them right, he checked his watch and frowned because indeed, he only had five minutes. Packing his notes and laptop in his book bag, he swung it over his shoulder and walked towards the reception, books in hand. He left them there to be properly organized, as should be, and exited the building, wrapping his scarf tightly about his neck. Sure, Britain's winters were quite famous, but Chicago had the gall to kick those away and remind Shaun of how very much he hated the cold.

Walking as quickly as possible and wondering if Americans found it funny to name this the windy city (and not exaggerating one bit about it), he made his way towards the subway, dodging cars because he still had things to live for and he had to turn that thesis in and check his grade (which would be the best, if he could say so himself).

Several minutes later had him sitting down on one of the carts and frowning at his cell phone as Rebecca told him that the minute he arrived to their shared (cheap) apartment, she would whisk him away to some party or other. His watch informed him that it was twelve, and thus, too late for any sort of activity except sleep (or attempt to in his case). The subway halted but he paid no mind, texting Becca back that he'd rather not, he was tired, leave me alone, kthxby.

Closing his eyes and praying that she wouldn't poke fun at his lack of social (not to mention sexual) life, Shaun leaned back on the sub's wall. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find he wasn't alone in the cart.

A man in a white hoodie and faded jeans sat at the end. Most of his face was concealed, but he could see a thin scar on his lips, which were chapped and dry. Upon further inspection, the man himself looked unhealthy and disheveled. He was pale, even with the light tan he had and he seemed thin to the point of seeming gaunt. His shoulders were slumped and his chin rested on his chest. For all Shaun knew, the man could be close to death.

The oddest thing about him, though, was that he was barefooted. His legs were splayed and showed the soles covered in mud and dirt and he could guess grease and grime. The British wondered if maybe he was some hapless hobo. Dying hobo? He made a face. Now he was curious, in the way one is curious about a dead animal on the road.

The cart began to slow down and stopped. Shaun rose to his feet and paused, still looking at the man as the doors slid open. He was about to step closer to him and ask the bloke if he was fine, if he needed to go to the hospital. Shaun decided against it. It wasn't his business anyway.

As he made his way out, two guys bumped into him, both in 'gangster' getup. Marvelous luck there, chap.

"Watch where you're going motherfucker!" Thug one exclaimed. How literate, he thought.

"Excuse me, beg your pardon." He practically elbowed his way out and hurried his steps, the jeers and whistles from the two echoing behind him. Absentmindedly, he wondered if leaving Mr. Hobo with those two was appropriate.

Then again, he'd rather Mr. Hobo get harassed than have himself knifed.

* * *

Mr. Hobo didn't come to mind until weeks later.

Yet again, he was walking towards the apartment, happy to get back because Rebecca wouldn't be there and he'd actually get to sleep early (not that one in the morning was early, but oh well). On top of that, his thesis had come out not only perfect, but it had received the highest marks.

He gave a start when he thought he'd heard something. Probably the wind. Wonderful Hastings, you're hallucinating. He jammed his hands deeper into his pants pockets and curled slightly in on himself as he walked, book bag hanging off of one shoulder. He was about six blocks from the warmth of his room when he heard the scuffling of shoes.

On the next corner, a group whistled at him and he stiffened. His day had been too good hadn't it? Yes, karma did tend to adore exploding in his face then turning to bite his arse. Just walk the longer route, ignore the guys and-bloody hell they were jogging up to him.

"Hey, man, we ain't gonna hurtcha... We just wanna talk, negotiate a few things through. S'pretty cold and we need some funds." The bloke smirked. Shaun only frowned as the other three chuckled at this.

"I'm quite sure you need funds, but the thing is I'm not some bloody ATM, so if you'll excuse me, we could all go our ways and pretend this never happened." He was about to turn and just leave, because this all reeked of trouble and losing things he'd worked too bloody hard to lose when they circled him, closing his exit somewhat.

"Aw, c'mon man, don't be like that. Now, if you just fork over your cash and that laptop, m'sure we could just go along just like you said. How's about it?" He asked with the bloody sneer more evident in his face.

"Well that sounds just about-." Shaun bolted. He elbowed two out of his way and ran. Well, he had tried to negotiate and it didn't work. Ignoring their shouts and listening only for their continued footfalls behind him, he ran like hell itself was on his heels. He narrowly avoided getting hit by a taxi but kept going, because he liked his life, and he liked his money. Even a foreigner like him had become familiar with this town's reputation, besides, and he wasn't going to take chances.

He ran until he had a stitch in his side, until pain shot up his legs with every step, and even then kept going until he hit a dead end in a dark alley. Panting, he glared at his would-be assailants. He reached for his phone, only to realize that he'd left it on the library desk where he'd been working, and it wasn't in his back pocket like it usually would be. That left him with his laptop... might make a good bludgeon. He slid his book bag off his shoulder as they approached and held it up like he was going to hit them with it. "Don't come closer."

One of the thugs laughed. "Ooh, what's he gonna do with that bag? Hipster fag probably doesn't have much of a swing." The other one, who looked to be just a little on the dim side, laughed with him. It sounded like he was mentally retarded.

"It doesn't take much of an impact to snap a rib. After all, why would I go for the head? You've probably already been dropped on it as a child." He couldn't stop himself from talking, could he? He just -did- it.

The thugs stopped laughing. The dumb one bared capped teeth. "Get 'im."

Ah. Now he was royally fucked, wasn't he? Where was Becca when he needed her? Always shoving it in his face on those other two times she'd saved his arse and this time he'd be able to shove it in her face that this time, she hadn't been there. Then again, this was a depressing thought because it meant he couldn't save himself for shit and he had to be saved by a woman of all things.

They advanced on him, one of the three brandishing a knife when someone fell right in front of him. As in, literally just fell out of bloody nowhere like the sky had just spat him out. He stared at the man as he straightened up, wearing (and here his eyes widened in recognition) a white hoodie.

"Isn't four on one kind of unfair?" He asked in a playful tone, arms raised in a questioning gesture.

The British was now positive karma thought this to be a rather hilarious 'knight in shining armor' allegory. But then again, he wasn't about to complain. Maybe the bloke knew kung-fu or something? Please let him know something to defend both their arses.

"Hey! This ain' your business, fag! Get out the way and we'll let you go." The leader snarled. Hoodie only gave a light chuckle.

"Now see, I'd do just that, except it looked like you were about to mug this poor fellow. I don't think he'd appreciate that, so how about you guys go instead?" His tone was still playful, almost teasing, not to mention idiotic in Shaun's humble opinion. Wait for it, wait for it…

The thugs laughed. Well what did he expect! It was four against one now! They were still on the receiving end! Shaun was about to remark on this with a hissed whisper but stopped short. He hadn't noticed it, but the man was slowly backing up -sideways-, using himself as a sort of cover, making Shaun move backwards and into the right side of the alley where freedom would just be a matter of running.

So maybe he wasn't that stupid. Not to mention that while he did this, he kept egging the men on, all of them too dense to notice that by now, they'd finally gone completely around them and Shaun was home free.

"Oi! He's tricking us! Shut the fuck up and just kill 'im!" Bugger, there went their cover.

"Run." He heard the other whisper. He received the short image of his profile and saw, for the briefest moment, a scar on smirking lips. He didn't think anymore about it and just ran like hell.

* * *

Gasping and almost on his knees, Shaun kept looking back to see if he was being followed. Nothing, nada, zero, zilch and all those other things used when you found yourself nice and safe.

Well, that was a pity. Another chance for him to socialize and yet again spoiled by the slums of the Windy City. Damn you, Chicago! While he kept thinking these and other sarcasm laden thoughts (a service he provided) he bumped into someone and screamed. Not like a girl mind you, that was just unmanly.

"Do you have the habit of falling from the bloody sky!" He snapped, glaring at the hooded man. He gawked. "How did you..?" He looked back and then at him, then back again. Oh yes, the alleyway was just about to spit the answer at him.

"Parkour tends to get that impression on people. Am I getting a thank you?" The git was smirking. The hooded man received a spectacled glare.

"What for? Walking around rooftops like some ape?"

"How about for saving your life? Just a thank you'd be nice. Or maybe I could walk you back to your apartement. You know, make sure you don't get in trouble again." Just a few moments and he was getting on his nerves.

"Yes, of course, whatever flies your way." Shaun grumbled. He walked towards his apartment, just a scant four blocks away. "So tell me, do you make a habit of jumping out of nowhere and saving people out of the kindness of your heart?"

The other chuckled, walking close to him, the air from his nose puffing out in little clouds of humidity. "Nah, you just seemed desperately in need of being saved. I'm Desmond Miles. Do I get your name or do I give up like with my thank you?"

There was a frown at this and he walked a bit faster, looking forwards. Their shoulders would brush sometimes and maybe the redness of his cheeks and the hurrying of his heart had nothing to do with him running in cold weather. "Shaun Hastings, nice to make your acquaintance, I suppose."

"Well, Shaun, what has you walking around so late?" The git was trying for a conversation in a suave way, the bastard. Thinking he was all cool attitude and good-looks. What? He could admit to other men being handsome! Like admiring a piece of art in a museum! Nothing wrong with that!

"Had to finish some schoolwork." Was his curt reply. He stopped at the front of the steps of his apartment and smiled at him. "Now, if you don't mind, this is where we split. It was nice meeting you, Miles-"

"Desmond."

"Right. If you don't mind I'd appreciate it if you made a hasty retreat to whatever it is you do, I wouldn't be too fond if my roommate found you here with me. She has these silly hallucinations that I'm-."

Warm lips on his own had him shutting up. It was nothing spectacular like all those romance novels he didn't read said it was. Just a press of lips and he could feel the scar. They separated, the British gawking at the hooded man.

"Have a nice night, Shaun."

When he entered the apartment, making sure that Becca was nowhere in his proximity, he chanced a glance through the window out looking the lamp post where he'd just received a kiss from some total stranger.

He swore he wasn't smiling when he saw Desmond three lampposts down looking up at him.


	2. Nosy Wenches

_A/N: I don't know what to say. I mean, I'll be honest, I didn't expect such a positive response from you guys. This story was born while chatting with wonderful Vince and our joint disappointment of where the vampire lore has gone. With Desmond's new, more active role in Brotherhood and its unfortunate end, this story became possible for me to write it without affecting the character's personalities. It even helped me map out Shaun's personality better (even though I still have a hard time with him). I'm not really sure where this will go, or for how long, but I do know this. I thank you, very much. As long as I have one person eager for the next chapter, I will do my best to keep it up._

 _I know, tl;dr. In short? Thank you so much for the reviews. I'll try to update ASAP and Assassin's Creed and its people don't belong to me. On with the show!_

* * *

Winter vacation came and went, filled with nights full of partying people, trips to hometowns and home countries, meetings with aunts and uncles and great-great grandmothers that still pinch your cheeks. Celebrations of a jolly, fat man and the birth of a certain religious figure passed, either in the company of loved ones or alone. The New Year arrived as well, everyone opening bottles of cider, eating grapes, and the ritual kissing of someone special at exactly twelve along with other festive activities.

Unfortunately, school has this thing where you have to come back, no matter how comfortable you were at your granny's or that person you met at some other place or how much fun you're having. School and work don't care, don't wait and demand you present yourself on Monday sharp.

Shaun had to travel quite the distance back after a rather awkward family reunion to which he swore next year he wasn't going to attend (just like he'd swore last year). There was a reason he was studying abroad after all. While he was stuck listening to his mother's complains about menopause and his grandmother's (why was the woman still alive!) whines about cold bones, he couldn't help but think about Mr. Desmond Miles.

Hadn't he seemed different when he'd seen him on the cart? Maybe he'd gone through withdrawal? This troubled him as he drank a cup of _real_ Earl Grey and cut off his nephews' noisy games and general chaos caused by the little devils. But he didn't have the haggard appearance when he'd dropped from the sky, he mused, as he sat outside watching the fireworks display and afterwards, absentmindedly hugging every single person that had come to the Hasting's Christmas Celebration (an enormous event made possible by every neighbor in their street though he still wasn't sure why it had their name in it).

But it _was_ the same person. He wore the same hoodie, same pants and that _scar._ Cutting straight through those smirking lips, full and teasing, somehow perfect as it marred him. The scar itself seemed to have him even more perplexed than its owner. How did he get it? Was he in a fight? Did someone bite him? This was contemplated as he tried his best to ignore the overly talkative man besides him, an Arab, maybe from Iraq, Kadar, if he remembered right. His brother was fast asleep and there was no way to politely tell the younger to please shut up.

And then there was that thing about _kissing_. Miles had kissed him, Hastings, a complete stranger, had bid him goodnight, and was still looking up at his apartment when he'd gone in. It was inconvenient, really, because every time he'd see someone kiss on New Year's Eve he'd think of that kiss under the lamp post. He would remember the warm breath before, the press on his own lips, the scar (again with the bloody scar), the smile after they parted and his eyes, confident that they'd somehow meet again.

This made another question spring up (as if he needed more). How in bloody hell where they going to meet again! They hadn't exchanged phone numbers, email, facebook, twitter, _anything._ Sure, the man knew his address, but he didn't think he'd come strolling up the stairs, knock on his door and ask if he wanted to go out and have a cup of coffee (as friends, obviously)!

Oh well, he thought morosely, yet again absentmindedly performing a task like pushing the keys to his apartment in the lock. At least it'd been somewhat pleasant.

He was promptly pulled into the apartment. And viciously too. He almost tripped on the carpet, half-dragged his bags in with him and was very close to coming in acquaintance with the carpet he'd just tripped on.

"Hello, Becca. I'm fine, thank you _so much_ for asking. I'm sorry I didn't bring you anything as wonderful as being half tossed into my own apartment. Maybe a nice kick or a punch in the face would do, but knowing you, you'll probably whine and ask for something a bit more ostentatious." His tone of voice was cheery. Please ignore the overflowing sarcasm and wittiness.

Rebecca Crane was smiling very much like a maniac. Sometimes he wondered how they became friends of all things. Oh, right, life debt. "Man, you've _got_ to tell me his name. He's _gorgeous_ as hell. Came at least _twice_ to check if you'd come back."

Shaun froze. "What?" He hoped his face wasn't as red as he felt it. Or his ears, for that matter. Oh blimey, how he hated it when his ears blushed of all things. He blinked, staring at her, waiting for more details and wondering if they were talking about the same man he'd just given up on.

"Tall, dark and handsome with a scar on his lips, remember? The guy always came sometime around eight asking if Shaun Hastings was available." She was positively preening now. "Did Shaunikins finally decide to come out of Narnia? Because seriously, if you haven't, I'll tap that."

Ladies and gentlemen! Shaun Hastings with his World Renowned Gold Fish Impersonation! Watch as his eyes boggle from behind his glasses! Astound yourself with the perfect way he copies the fish's opening and closing of its mandible!

"He came _here_!" Now he was blushing for sure. The apartment's heating was obviously the cause of this.

"Oh hell yeah, it's what I've been telling you. I think he'd be great for you. He's nice, to start. You know, not a sarcastic prick like _someone_ I know. And he's handsome. Anyone'll be jealous of you, myself excluded of course, because this is your first gay experience-"

"I'm not gay!"

"-and it'd suck if I interfered or something." While she spoke (and Shaun tried to protect his virility), she began pacing around the small living room, waving her hands about. "I bet he's _great_ on the rack. I mean _parkour_? You have any idea the muscle, not to mention the type of sharp mind and _balls_ you've got to have to practice that sport? You got real lucky."

Shaun gave a deep sigh and adjusted his glasses. He marched to his room, head held high as Rebecca followed after him, and then proceeded to lock himself up in his room while the horrible wench pounded on his door. As he began calmly unpacking his things and placing them neatly where they were supposed to be, he couldn't help the smile on his face, or how his heart fluttered, or the light heat on his cheeks. Really, the apartment's heating was terrible!

Rebecca wouldn't stop badgering about who Shaun's mystery man was and Shaun wouldn't stop artfully dodging or changing the subject (she had the attention span of a goldfish, after all). What little vacation time they had in January was now gone and he found himself in his library morning job. He could always count on his job for silence and peace, and he could think as much as he wanted without the constant chit-chat that was Crane. It also provided with a chance to maybe sneak-a-peek at Miles ("Desmond" his mind would remind him, and with his tone of voice too).

No such luck. Three weeks passed and still no sign of him.

"Maybe your face scared him away." Rebecca suggested as she ate some vegetarian _thing_. It looked like it would move at any moment. "Or your attitude, 'cus hells if I know you've got a wonderful way of making people feel special."

The Brit glared at her, turning from some newscast about several mauling attacks by some animal around their region. "Hilarious, Rebecca, truly, is this how you pick men up? By degrading them? No wonder you never have one man for more than one night."

"No, see, those're called one-nighters. But you wouldn't know about those, would you?" She gave him this pompous sneer that he wanted to swipe off her face with his plate.

"Oh, belt up." Shaun huffed and turned back to the news with the woman laughing in victory. Stupid cocky wench.

Eventually, his good mood turned sour as the days passed and still no signs of the bloody git. The only positive thing was that at least Becca was being sympathetic now and was trying to find out anything she could about him.

And then he remembered that Becca could really find _anything_ about anyone in rather dubious, not to mention illegal ways and he told her immediately to stop. After about two hours of a heated argument (in which the techno geek began singing at the top of her lungs mid-argument), she finally gave in and agreed not to do anything dangerous.

He still kept a careful watch on her, regardless.

After January ended and February came in, Shaun gave up. There was no reason to keep up with this childish hope in meeting him, and anyway, it wasn't like he'd been eager to have a reunion with the parkourist. Plus, he didn't feel broken hearted at all that was stupid.

"Oh c'mon Shaun," Rebecca was currently trying (read failing) to cheer him up as they finally finished their last class (she'd insisted he take an advance computer class with her for the extra credits. He'd stupidly agreed because it fit his evening schedule). "I'm sure he's searching for you, just like you're waiting for him. It's romantic though isn't it? You, the hopeful virgin-"

"R-Rebecca, I'm not a virgin!"

"-Him, the one to finally pull you out of your glass closet-"

"Would you stop it with the gay jokes!"

"- and then the both of you meet under the snow and share a warm kiss! The very picture of a romance novel!" She sighed as they exited the main building. This is Becca in fan girl mode. Be sure to keep a twenty mile radius away from her for your own safety.

He didn't want to hear her. At all. Tuning her out as he usually did when she began these ridiculous rants was simple with a simple rub of his eyes. He now had some heavy assignments but nothing he couldn't handle. He began systematically ordering them by level of importance, due dates and size. The Brit smiled quietly to himself and blinked when Becca's chatter was absent in the background.

"What?" He asked, turning to look at her. She was looking up at the building. "Cat finally got your tongue? Those things on the sky are clouds, Rebecca, and what's falling is called snow. Now, why don't you-." Something interrupted him by deciding to _fall from the bloody sky_.

Of course he didn't scream like some woman, this was previously discussed! Rebecca on the other hand gave a whoop of delight and whatever fell from the sky spoke up.

"Sorry I startled you. Do you scream every time someone scares you?"

Shaun stared up from his spot on the floor (because Becca had very obviously pushed him) up at the man he'd yet again recently given up on and stammered (falls hurt the brain, you know).

"Y-You! You, you git! You barmy ceiling monkey! You think you can simply drop down from bullock's know where! Are you off your trolley! No, really, tell me, because every time I've met you, you fall from the bloody sky, you overzealous prat!" A rant was this? Oh no, it was him simply telling Miles 'Hello, chap! How've you been! Holidays all right?'

"Hi Shaun." That was it! He practically told the man to bugger off and he just _smiles_ like he, like he… "I know it's weird, but I missed you. I thought I wouldn't see you again." He was blushing a bit, toeing the ground anxiously. Becca watched this all with an enormous shit-eating grin. He was left somewhere in the middle with his face burning and his throat clogged up.

"Shaun's missed you too!" They both turned to look at the woman with the glint in her eye that informed everyone in the vicinity that a plan had formed in that deranged mind of hers. "As a matter of fact, he was moping all week long because you didn't come see him!"

"Did he now?" Have the earth swallow him. Sometime _today_ would be wonderful. He was about to open his mouth, snap that it wasn't true because the goddamn arsehole was _smiling bloody again_ when the geek herself broke in quickly.

"Yes! You know, I think you owe him now. You practically left him hanging, Desmond right? How about making it up for him?"

Wide brown eyes turned to glare at her and tell her to _put a sock on it_ when he answered with a nervous "You think he'd accept going on a date with me?" Now he was staring at the bloody moron and the weather was doing things again because his face (and his ears) felt hot. A date! A date! A gloved hand slapped over his mouth at break wrist speed and he tried (read failed again) to pry it off.

"Hell yeah! Friday good?" He glared daggers at her. Could someone else drop from the sky! Now! Because now he felt like his legs were giving away and his heart was doing its absolute best to rams its way out his chest.

"Eight sound good?" The number you're calling is out of order. Please try again at some other time when the recipient's soul is in its proper place. Or maybe in some other dimension when his witty remarks are not hampered down by a strong, gloved hand. Of a woman of all things. He was really pathetic wasn't he?

Becca merely smiled from ear to ear. "Eight's _perfect_. He'll be hot and ready to go"

That's when he turned to look at him, finally, because he wasn't just painted there or like he was just some statue with ridiculous embarrassed faces every two seconds. "I'll see you on Friday then. It was nice seeing you again Shaun, even if Becca did all the talking." The sound of his chuckle would be forever engrained in his memory (for perfectly normal reasons!)

She let go but only after the barmy monkey had slipped himself away over the building's roof (with commentaries on his strength and arse by Becca). At this point, she looped an arm over his shoulder, smirked and asked "Aren't I an _awesome_ friend?"

The geek received no answer as he hurriedly walked towards his apartment. No reply was given as she kept pestering him for thanks on the trolley. Neither did he respond when she teased him all the way up the stairs. And it felt very satisfying to slam the door in her face, even if it was slightly eclipsed by her roaring laughter. As he sat on bed and rubbed his eyes again, he couldn't really deny this time that he was smiling from ear to ear with his heart doing summersaults in his chest.


	3. Three Date Rule

Have you gone to a date? I'm not talking about going out with your friends, or those nice family outings. Oh, _hell no_ , I'm talking about an actual date. And not even with the cute guy from History 1301 you've seen and talked to at least once either, I mean a total stranger that you have met only three times and thus, you only have a name and tiny details. Now that we're fully into the situation, you can guess how Shaun felt Friday evening. He was just about ready to start pulling his hair and smash things, very a la Hulk (although this is a bad comparison. Hulk could destroy a city if he felt like it. The biggest thing Shaun could do was throw the microwave out the window because like hell he was going to throw the plasma screen). He didn't know what to wear, he had no idea what they would talk about, and he didn't know if the three date thing applied here, what with Desmond's sudden disappearances into nothingness.

Rebecca in the meanwhile was having the time of her life watching the history student quietly panic. While most people trembled, paced, rambled and finally broke into a sweat (or tears), Shaun tended to go into a sort of 'Oh my fucking God' catatonic state. He'd stiffly go about normal activities, would become unnaturally silent and would zone out, as if the previously mentioned panic was taking place in his head.

"Shaun, man, c'mon, _calm down_." She tried, although her voice carried on her mirth. He only turned to glare at her momentarily and kept going with his research. How he didn't get whiplash was beyond her. "You can glare all you want but it's not going to change the fact that it's almost seven. He's going to knock on that door any minute now."

If looks could kill, Rebecca would have been shot, poisoned and mauled all at the same time. "Why thank you, Rebecca! I obviously need the extra pressure on top of my growing apprehension to this 'date' as you call it. Would you like me to send you a detailed list of when each of my projects are due so you can remind me every little instance of the day as well?"

"You'd do that? I knew you loved me! I can bet it'll be real fun to watch you have an aneurysm because of the pressure!"

She dodged a flying book and laughed harder than ever as he tried to kick her out of his room, emphasis on tried. "No, but seriously, stop working on that, I know from a viable source that you don't have anything due until next Wednesday. So get up, take a bath and I'll pick something nice for you to wear. No" She held a hand up as his mouth opened ready to retort, effectively shutting him up, "-I don't want to hear anything. Now go or I'll wash you myself."

With defeat imminent and knowing she wasn't going to quit (and that she was dead serious on the washing part), he grumbled under his breath (it sounding suspiciously like murder plans) and made his way to the bathroom. The shower soothed his nerves a bit and he felt somewhat better when he came out wrapped in a towel. The little confidence boost decided to bail with a well said 'fuck this shit' when he saw what she had picked out.

"I'm not wearing that Rebecca! As a matter of fact, I don't even think those clothes are mine!"

"What are you talking about? Of course they are! Now hurry up and get dressed!" If, unlike Shaun, you pay close attention to Rebecca's foot, you'll see it push what seem to be carton bags behind the dresser.

"No! Most certainly not! I think I'll pick something myself, thank you very much. I don't want to look like I'm draped in, in whatever _that_ is, or look like some cheap whore."

"It's just a shirt and some jeans, Shaun, don't be a pussy."

"A shirt and jeans-! Excuse me if that's not what it looks like! It looks like it'll become my second skin the moment I put it on! And why in the Queen's name is it all in dark colors?"

"…your lights are on."

Shaun sputtered for about five minutes after this. Then the door decided to chime in that it was being knocked and he made the intelligent response of sputtering again. Rebecca gave a sigh, rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion with her hand.

"Look, just get dressed and I'll talk with him to get you some time. And you better put it on or I'll start telling him about Kate."

Shaun's eyes became slits and the grip on the towel made his knuckles turn white. "You wouldn't _dare_."

"Try me." Thus is the tale of how Becca beat Shaun and made him wear what she'd bought- what she'd picked for him from his own closet. She chuckled under her breath as she made her way to the door. He was easy to beat if you knew where to press. Peeking through the eye-hole, still thinking about Shaun having a seizure from his date made her reaction time a bit slower. She frowned in confusion when she saw no one in the hall. But someone had just knocked, right? Shrugging, she opened the door ready to crane her neck to search about and gasped when she almost collided with Desmond.

"Geez man didn't see you there!" She laughed, even if her heart was hammering in her chest. But just a second ago there hadn't been anyone. Maybe he'd slid away for a bit? Yeah, probably got a little nervous and paced about or something, after all, the eye-hole could only show you so much.

He gave a sheepish smile and rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry I scared you. Is Shaun ready?"

"In a minute, he was having a woman fit because he didn't know what to wear, so you can wait inside." She left the door open and walked in. "So where are you guys going to? Nice movie and romantic dinner after wards? It's pretty cliched if you ask me but-"

Rebecca really couldn't help but stare when she turned to look him up and down (known in some cultures as 'snaking') and saw him still standing at the door. He was looking at the thin line of wood that separated the hall and the apartment itself with a frown, almost in annoyance and turned to look at her with another sheepish expression. "Uh, Desmond, aren't you going to come in?"

"Call me old fashioned, but I don't go in a house unless I'm expressly invited." He admitted, hands digging into his pockets in a shrug. She rolled her eyes and, with an exaggerated gesture, took a little bow.

"You may come in, Desmond, he who had the stomach capacity to invite Shaun out." They both laughed at this and he stepped in, looking at the room with genuine curiosity. "So, date places?" Oh hell yes she was going to leech out any and all info out of Desmond. She couldn't wait to tell Lucy!

"I was actually going to ask Shaun where he wanted to go." He smiled and Becca visibly deflated.

"You either got no brain capacity for romance, I hope not, or you're just really mellow."

There was a quizzical smile on his face, like he knew something and he chuckled, although it sounded… off. "Yeah, probably mellow." Rebecca stored that little bit in her mind, because it wasn't only odd, but for a slight minute there, he'd seemed jaded, depressed even. It flashed in his eyes but vanished far too quickly. She was into mysteries and Desmond was proving to be the biggest one yet. Well, if in doubt, ask. And she would have done so if the door to Shaun's room hadn't opened. Damn! The universe conspired to keep her from being informed! Although to be honest it only helped to make her even more curious.

Of course all thought consequently went out the window when she saw how Desmond's eyes light up when they landed on Shaun. Must remember to suppress glee and immediate need to squeal or might shy Shaun away. "You ready?"

To say Shaun was jittery was an understatement. If Becca compared him to a statue she might insult the marble piece. "Yes, yes, now let's leave before she starts babbling. I hope she didn't embarrass you too much, she has a tendency to go for the balls. The jugular seems too quick for her."

As they exited the apartment (with a quick 'Bye Becca!' from Desmond who was now being dragged away by Shaun) and she closed the door, she really hoped the spectacled man had fun. God knew he needed it, and maybe he'd get something to replace the stick in his ass. But for now, she was going to text Lucy.

* * *

"She's really excited for you isn't she?"

Shaun was trying his best to be nice, because this was a friendly outing (not a date, I assure you), and he was the invitee after all. But the bloody git was bloody _teasing_ him from the moment they'd gone into the elevator. And while it was getting his temper, it also helped to pretend he wasn't internally boiling himself to a nice Roast Hastings. Desmond chuckled and shuffled a bit and it occurred the spectacled man that maybe he wasn't the only one about to have a nervous fit.

Now he was bloody leaning into his bloody personal space, with a smirk and that scar seemingly laughing at him. How a scar could laugh at you was beyond him, but _it was doing it._ "Am I making you angry or are you just as nervous as me?"

He snapped. "Oh no, I'm jolly good, Desmond! I am going Queen knows where with a bloody stranger of all things who decided he'd like to kiss me like we knew each other or god forbid we were in some sort of, of _relationship_ , but apart from that? I'm bloody well fine, thank you very much!"

They were quietly staring (in his case glaring) at each other for about five seconds (it felt like an eternity) when Desmond smiled from ear to ear and chuckled, although it looked like he was trying his absolute best to not laugh himself stupid.

"You talk a lot. Anyone ever tell you that? I-it's not a bad thing!" He assured, hands in a surrender pose, as Shaun began to sputter indignant noises ready to launch himself into another rant. "Just, well, it's the first time someone talks to me with bucketfuls of sarcasm."

"Well I'm glad I amuse you." Snapping irritably at someone was supposed to be insulting but instead, the moron only smiled. "Anything else you would like? Maybe a punch would do you good."

"How about another kiss?"

Have you ever felt your brain freeze? It's a really odd little process where your brain just tells everyone at work to halt and just wait for your soul to go back to its proper place. After all, if the body keeps going the soul could get lost, or maybe you could turn into a zombie. You know, like om nom nom delicious brains. That's a no because being a zombie is not particularly sexy or attractive (unless you were into that sort of thing, which if it is, you are disgusting).

"A-Absolutely not! W-Why should we kiss? That is inappropriate and, and either way, why would you want a repeat? Maybe you want to prove something to someone or this could even be some cruel joke! Well I'm not falling for it! And either way, only couples kiss like, like that night and we are _not_ a couple, and I _certainly do not_ swing that way!"

"Maybe it's because I liked the way your lips felt."

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Desmond walked out practically laughing his arse off at the blank expression on Shaun's face. Being red as a tomato could be a probable cause of his laughter. He stopped and rolled his eyes, grabbing Shaun's hands and dragging him out.

"Fine, fine, no kisses, not until the third date, right?"

"What makes you think we're on a date? No, no, what makes you think there will be a third one? We are tentative friends for now, you quack, and you should count yourself lucky that I even got ready for this, because if memory serves me, Becca agreed, not me." Ignore that he's holding your hands, that they're warm, and that he's smiling at _you_ or that he's missing a finger or- Wait what?

"But you came and you even got all dolled up. You look very handsome by the way."

"How charming of you. I hope this isn't part of your clever scheme to bonk me. The kiss was a one off, so don't keep your hopes up for an encore. And either way, if I hadn't attended that would have been rude, and while sarcastic, I still have manners, thank you very much." Insert Shaun Hastings' infamous death glare. How the hell the twat managed to brush it off like the snow falling on them was beyond the Brit.

Desmond let go of one of his hands, the other firmly clasped and being lightly swung between them as they kept walking. Maybe he'd ask later about the missing finger. The moment was nice, one Shaun wouldn't confess to even under severe physical torture. Then Desmond had to hash it by saying with that ridiculous smile of his, "I think I love you. Can I? I'll let you insult me as much as you want. Or we can start slow. Can I like you first?"

"What sort of question is that? Are you barmy? I think you are. Why are all the people I associate with off their rocker? Am I a magnet to strange people? Maybe god thinks it's a jolly good joke to stick Shaun with the nutters, that's probably it." No, he sure as hell was _not_ blushing again. Haven't we discussed manliness before? Yes we have. It's completely manly for two grown men to walk about at night, hold hands and have one flirting at the other...

Yeah, really manly...

He was losing his own argument wasn't he? It wasn't helping that he hadn't even _tried_ to let go. Desmond: 1 Shaun: 0

"So where do you want to go? Or do we keep talking and walking around? I think it's good, we get to know each other this way." And you get to be all touchy feeling with my hand, you wanker.

Shaun stared incredulously. "You _don't_ have a car? So then my friends are cheap and crazy." He's not a gold-digger, but he ain't messing with no broke. Even if said broke was good looking. And well, the parkour thing, while impressive, wasn't a means for Desmond to go around the city, right? _Right?_

A knowing smile again. Did he believe himself master of the universe or something! "I have a bike. It's actually parked in the corner, but I'm not sure if you'll be ok riding it."

"Did you just call me a _nancy?_ " Oh, no he didn't! ...he could somehow picture Rebecca snapping her fingers and moving her head. This was horribly, terribly racist of him, wasn't it? It was Becca's fault, in his defense! She had the oddest taste in music! Stealing her mp3 player was a mistake he lamented even now, but she deserved it! Uploading those pictures to her facebook, he had to get back to her _somehow_.

"I just said-"

"We're going on your bloody bike to, to a _park_ or something. I don't know! You could at least take me to dinner! If this is a d-. A d-"

"Date?"

"Yes that, isn't it customary to have dinner before the whole business in-" Insert audible gulp, here. "Well, you know! And stop smiling like that, you wanker, you should feel honored that I'm actually playing along with your fiendish schemes!"

Why did it feel like he was the butt of some joke? The answer (along with a shit-ton of bricks, ninjas they are) came to him when they finally rounded the corner and he looked at the bike in question. It occurred to him that motorcycles had one seat, and thus, they would have to sit together in close proximity. And if parkour meant going very fast, then this bike probably went very fucking fast. Oh, now he got the joke alright, ha ha, real funny, he'd dug his own grave, wonderful humor there, great job lad.

"You ok?" Shaun blinked out of his quiet (seething, angry) stupor and looked at Desmond who was already sitting on the bike, one helmet on his hand, the other under his arm. "We can walk if you want."

Feeling a burst of bravery (and later he'd admit, a burst of plain idiocy), he stomped towards the scarred man and viciously took the offered helmet. He pocketed his glasses in a safe enough place and practically shoved the helmet on his head (which as luck would have it, he hurt himself in the process. Charming Hastings, just charming). "I told you to take me somewhere didn't I? And make it quick!" He sat behind him as far as possible and gripped the back of the seat, glaring at him (even if it was futile. Both of the visors were tinted. Further proof that the fates and the universe were against him).

"You sure about that?" He turned the bike on and it roared to life. It was too late to turn back now, not that he could. Becca would make fun of him for the rest of his life. "She's pretty quick. And, uhm, you should probably hold yourself on me."

"I'm not falling for that! It's only an excuse to get me to-AAAAGH!"

See, sometimes, you don't need to do anything to shut someone up. Making a bike go from 0 to a whooping 30 MPH in 5 seconds flat tends to quiet anyone up with the added bonus of the victim holding on to dear life and, consequently, you become their lifeline, the center of their universe if you will. Shaun was glued to Desmond as the hell-thing sped up and he reasoned it had to be illegal. This was quick? If _this_ was quick then what was fast? He'd done it on purpose to shut him up because he'd seen the git rolling his bloody eyes at him before he'd lowered the visor and had just pedaled the thing into motion. He was going to get him back, you just wait and see! "You alright?" He heard Desmond yell over the roar of the wind.

"Just peachy!" He yelled back. After about two minutes of holding to dear life (not to mention ignoring just how close they were, or the feel of Desmond as he breathed, or when he leaned one way he could feel the muscles underneath the hoodie- ok, stop train of thought, right now) he finally deemed it safe enough to open his eyes. The city lights bled around them, the only sound distinguishable being the roar of the engine as it seamlessly wove around the traffic. Shaun was amazed at just how easily Desmond dodged obstacles and objects, not to mention how smoothly. This was actually soothing if, you know, you forgot that they were so close, or that they were en route to dinner, or that maybe he was actually considering allowing Desmond to be his friend (and only that. Manly, remember? Although..).

Shaun didn't know how much time passed but all too soon they were slowing down and he was actually wishing it didn't (it had nothing to do with the proximity. _At all_. More like the impending horror of this actually starting to shape out like a date). They stopped at a quaint little diner downtown, the people inside visible by the windows. Happy people, smiling people, content couples. Shaun wanted to puke. He wanted to turn tail and run because let's be dead honest, he was close to nervous collapse. He'd never gone on a date except with Kate and that had been disastrous, so this one could turn sour in a matter of minutes. Maybe, after that, Desmond would never want to see him, or talk to him or anything and in a way, that made him even more nervous (synonym: afraid).

"How about we go somewhere else? I'm not that hungry anymore." Or just plain _leave_ , he thought wildly, eyes darting from the nice dinner to his pseudo-date. For a minute, he thought the scarred man would start teasing him, maybe even make fun of him. He was surprised when, instead, Desmond turned on the bike, looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

"To be honest, I already had dinner. I was hoping you wanted to go somewhere else. If you don't want to be here, we can go anywhere else you want."

"Yes!" Maybe he answered a bit too fast. A bit too dramatic too. For Chrissake's he was acting like some goddamn woman! Breath in, chap, grab a hold of yourself. While you're at it, take another deep breath because the limey twat just burst ahead again. He felt like he was stuck on a flytrap. As much as you try to fly away, you're stuck as close as possible; your life depends on this. The contradiction here being that if he didn't hold on he might slip and broken heads were a no no. Haven't we discussed zombie status as well before?

Regardless of his... behavior, or the close contact that would make anyone blush, Shaun was enjoying this. The speed, the weightless sort of freedom brought on by a two-wheeled motor, completely different from a car, or a bicycle. The air becoming hard, tangent and sharp, like glass against exposed skin, cuts deep inside but it makes you feel _alive._ And maybe this date thing wasn't so bad. Maybe this Desmond guy, _maybe_ , they could have a nice friendship. Maybe something more, maybe, who knew. Brown eyes closed at that thought, because for the first time in the whole night, it didn't sound that bad.

* * *

Their first date would be summarized as follows. Shaun had been adamant about being seen in public. Desmond had seemed to understand and had taken him to a quiet place, a park with a great view and a nice little lake. They talked there, no complications, no strings, just words and common interaction which Shaun found himself terribly out of practice (having Becca as his only social contact was jarring). For every sarcastic comment the history major had, the scarred man had a joke, some witty show of flippant nonchalance. It was nice, having someone listen and laugh, not make a face at you and call you an asshole (thank you, I'll be here all week). They shared another kiss, though this time more cautious, a tidbit less conspicuous (Desmond insisted they could use him being Italian as an excuse to a kiss in the cheek. He was further impressed when the man began fluently making his point in actual Italian). Bonus points were added when Shaun tried discussing several historical occurrences and Desmond easily followed through.

"What? Did you live through it or something? You sound like some old man relieving old memories." He snapped, but there was no sour tone to it.

"I did. Not as nice as it seems." He'd answered. Shaun wasn't sure why he felt this was said with no humor, even if it was accompanied with a smile.

They went to a bar afterwards, after much probing from Desmond (he should have said whining, lowers his man points a bit, ha!) Two guys having a drink, nothing wrong with that. Except for the fact that Shaun had zero alcohol tolerance. Well, that was an exaggerated thing to say, but after his fifth beer he felt like a nice, warm idiot. Desmond, he noted with slurry anger, hadn't drank a thing. The other said it was him being designated driver. The bespectacled man called it date rape tactic. What with how completely smashed he was, the idea actually sounded inviting. His body though, being the goddamn nancy it was, decided it was high time to bail on him and he passed out. He woke the next morning with a throbbing headache (not the throbbing he expected, by the way), a laughing Rebecca, and a text message telling him they could meet up again if he wanted. Fuck yes he did.

The remainder of the week he texted with Desmond, but only because the man send him a message first! It was... strange, having someone inquire about his day, ask if he was alright, be genuinely interested in his activities, so on and so forth. At times, he would look up at the buildings, some tiny (emphasis on the word, if you will) hope in him thinking he would catch a glimpse of the scarred man, but no such luck. Although one time, he did see from his window a white blur go from one roof to another. Desmond said he wasn't in the vicinity but had strangely warned him to stay indoors.

 _Don't go out_ was the only thing he'd texted.

To his horror, Becca had gone and tattled on Lucy. This had the blonde come over with a knowing smile and a shaking head. "I thought you were always saying you were straight."

"I had that thing with Kate!"

"One time thing, man. Didn't even get to first base, so she doesn't count." Rebecca had a thing about going for your balls, if you remember. Jugular? Fuck no, she left you alive, in pain and scarred for life. The worst part? She was being _nice_ with this comment. She still had quite a lot of ammo for worse emotional wounds.

"She's right on that, Shaun." Oh sure, team up on the poor hapless bloke here, thank you. He raised his hand in an inverted peace sign and she laughed. "So who's the lucky guy that managed to thaw your heart out?"

"Desmond Miles! The hunk's got junk!" Becca piped up for him.

"Rebecca, can you let the adults talk here? Is it so hard for you to shut your trap for more than five seconds? Or are you really that childish?" They didn't really get to discuss anything else after that because of the nasty scuffle that came afterwards. Maybe if they'd paid attention, they would have seen Lucy's shocked face. There might have been recognition there.

The second date is as follows. As now seemed usual, the twat attempted to give Shaun a heart attack by appearing, without a sound and out of bloody nowhere right behind him as he exited the library (he failed, by the way). He apologized like always and was called a lunatic which he shrugged off easily, normal, normal. Except for the invitation to go out and take a walk. Which they did, and it was nice and calm and normal. Until shit hit the fan. Actually, no, shit did not hit the fan, the previous statement is added for amusement and over exaggeration, really, shouldn't you be used to this by now? Almost five thousand words and the snark still amazes you? You should feel ashamed, really.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand or the action that has already transpired, what have you. They had a nice chat again, and Shaun was feeling a little less queasy (which meant he was less likely to vomit himself stupid). They actually now had something to talk about. Turns out, Desmond had a personal adoration for history, something about holding on to the memories of the world. This trait greatly impressed the historian because on top of his accurate knowledge of dates, locations and personas, he had actual _priceless artifacts._

 _"_ You're not pulling my leg here? Not another ploy is it? Because I think I might bend this time." To bloody hell with dignity, these were _real_ you-don't-ever-get-to-see-them-in-your-bloody-lifetime-much-less-touch-them artifacts. Hell, he'd wear a dress to see them (maybe not a dress. Oh, who was he kidding, of course he would)!

Desmond chuckled. "No joke. Just tons of family heirlooms, in good shape of course, but we could check them out anytime. You can keep whichever you like best, if you want."

"Oh now I know you're trying to get in my pants. Keep up the good job, you might succeed." He raised the paper cup with the coffee Desmond had insisted on paying for him in a cheer and he bloody laughed, just like always. The idea made him shiver, but it was cold anyway, so ha, ninja abilities. He had them.

On the third date was Shaun close to an aneurism. The bloody wanker gave him _the original sketch of the Mona Bloody Lisa._ His reason?

"I'd thought maybe you'd like it. I'm a little fond of it, but I guess you can keep it."

Shaun had never jumped someone in his life. He was British, and the denomination held with it several rules and mannerisms. But when a man trying to woo you gives you _the original sketch of the Mona Bloody Lisa_ , you tell all those things to kindly get themselves fucked in the arse and you throw caution to the wind because, are you bloody reading this right? _This is the motherfucking original sketch of the motherfucking Mona bloody Lisa_. He hugged the man without even thinking it twice, everybody be damned to hell and back. This was also kind of a big deal because it marked the first time he kissed Desmond, not the other way around. As he was feeling unabashedly grateful and completely out of his mind _(sketch! Mona Lisa! I think I came_ ), the kiss turned rather heated after a bit. He didn't know how it started from a simple peck of the lips to full blown making out straight down to second base. Up yours Rebecca! They only stopped half-way through making it to home base when it clicked on Shaun that they were very close to _fucking in his apartment_. He was pretty sure the nasty wench would have a wonderful year with these bits of news but he really wasn't ready to have someone fuck his brains out (or the other way around! After all, he was not going to be the lady in this relationship!). When Desmond left with a quick peck of lips (and a chuckled statement that he'd probably bring more things if it would make the historian a bit more 'active') he fully understood what had just transpired.

They had made out, had almost fucked (he vividly remembered calloused hands under his shirt, hips grinding, tongues dancing… Excuse me, I need alone time) and Desmond had backed off without so much as a complaint (balls of steel, he had to admit the man had them). Did this mean they were a couple? Well, not your garden variety, no, what with Desmond's strange night time schedule and Shaun's sudden sarcasm and acidic comments but they were getting there (if the thirty texts per day were any sign). The steamy dreams afterwards did not help with sexual tension, but it made him accept (grudgingly) that he _did_ have a thing for Desmond and that he wasn't all that upset about it. After all, he'd gotten a first handed experience of just how good a parkourist was with his hands (he couldn't get over the fact that it had only been _second base)_. Becca wouldn't shut up about it for the rest of the week. The only good thing out of this was when Shaun described in graphic detail how this had transpired _in Rebecca's room_. She didn't think it was funny anymore and shut up. Life is good I tell you. Life is good.

* * *

 _So sorry, so sorry! I should have posted this AGES ago, but school, and I got sick and, and and *fidget* Not to mention I wanted this chapter to be pretty fucking big. Alright, enough crying and whinning! The thing I talked about in the beggining! I am accpeting ideas. That's right! After chapter four, there will be five 'night-to-night' chapters which show the relationship as it grows before, you know, shit gets real. Top five ideas (mushy, fights, ridiculous, what have you) will be made into chapters and the winners will be given a real quick cameo, not to mention a one-shot of choice. So get crackin' and get me what you'd like. The dead-line is the end of Fevruary, so give your best shot! If you see any errors, feel free to point them out. Ta-dah!_


	4. The Do's and Don't's to Vampire Handling

"Going on for another all nighter? You should rest sometime, Luce. We're lucky we finished early today, you should go with everyone else, enjoy a drink, have some fun."

"I'll be fine, William, not really losing much, not to mention I'll be done early tonight."

"You sure about that?"

" _Yes,_ Will. I'm sure."

Dr. William M. a senior attending physician at the University of Chicago's Medical Center and the hospital's Residency Director tended to always worry about her. Lucy was the student with the brightest future after all, but sometimes it got to her and she would have to good naturedly scold him for over worrying for her. Not that he was soft, hell no, he was as stern as there was, but you could count on him when you were stuck on some unknown place, naked and stuck on a telephone booth (intern's true story).She waved him goodbye and craned her neck to make sure he was _really_ gone before she placed down what she was doing and heading for a particular cabinet nobody used.

After taking out a nondescript duffle bag, she made her way to the back where the bodies that were still not identified pleasantly lied in the cold chambers. Peeking about inside and making sure the coast was clear, she placed the bag, along with her clipboard atop a surgeon table and pushed it towards a specific point in the mortuary freezer. She pulled it open and sighed at the body bag there, stretching her neck a bit. She still had Mr. Overfelt to attend to. So young, so fast, so dead, put your seatbelt on, kiddies. The body bag was unzipped and she turned towards the duffle, taking out several things from inside that would seem strange, if not odd; A pair of jeans, an old pair of sneakers, boxers, socks, a black shirt and a worn out white hoodie.

Now, in horror movies, this is around the time where the body ominously rises up and strangles (or eats, if you like zombie movies. She adored them) the poor unsuspecting woman. When she heard the groan, she wasn't startled at all, instead walking towards another of the freezers and pulling Overfelt out, checking his toe tag and making sure he was ready to be moved. He was going to have a nice funeral, she'd heard.

"Not even good morning?" The man croaked, voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken in ages. The cold does that to you.

"It doesn't count when your morning constitutes of seven pm, Desmond."She answered back with a sly smile and turned to see him giver her half a glare.

He looked like he'd come out of a horror movie, what with the blue tone on his lips, the gray tone of his skin and the almost emaciated appearance. She chuckled as he clumsily got out and began dressing himself.

"You're a real comedian, Luce."

"Learned from the best."

"I'm still not sure if that's a good thing." He smiled wryly and she smiled back.

"You hungry?" This was not a nice question, but she had to do it anyways.

"Not much. Let me get the feeling back to my toes and then we can talk about food."

She shook her head and looked skywards, almost exasperated. "You have the most obscure sense of humor, I swear, if you could, you'd joke about bursting into flames from sun exposure."

"Wanna hear a joke about it? It'll be hillarious too, just bang! We all fall down. Then, Count Desmond becomes this thin, charcoaly stick."

The blonde frowned at this as the scarred man chuckled. " _Dad,_ not funny."

"Ouch, daughter card already? Alright, alright, I'll stop with the death jokes." He conceded, when the frown was followed by a glare. "How have you been Lucy? Sleeping better like I suggested or put on extra shifts like I told you _not_ to do." Well, if she was gonna pull the daughter card, he might as well pull the parent card, right?

"I'm over twenty one, Desmond, your question is invalid." Yeah, no, not working here.

"Ah, touche. Not fair but well played."

It was strange, she mused. Maybe she was insane, had been since she was seven, taking care of this creature. He couldn't really be called human, not with his frightening nonchalance to the everyday violence, the sudden peaks of apathy. But at times, he would show such uncontained kindness, would protect a stranger, and it would make Lucy that maybe it was just her holding on to what tiny sparks of humanity still clinged to existance.

He sure as hell didn't look human right now, though. Gaunt, skin almost plastered to his bones, those horrid dark, purple bags under his eyes, the eerie way his actions were practically noiseless, like a predator. His _eyes._ They were their real shade, that sharp gold that reminded her of knives, scissors, needles, swords, anything sharp and cutting, but beautiful in its glinting dangerous way. She'd always joked he looked like some oversized, underfed eagle this way. With the clothes on, he looked comical, at least to her, what with them trying not to slide off of his bony hips.

"Are you at least going to tell me where you're headed this time?"

He only gave her that crooked smile he had on when food was involved and slinked out of the morgue. Another sigh, this time with fond exasperation.

* * *

Lucy Stillman was a busy woman. Her pathology internship tended to keep her busy and usually, more than 20 hours inside a freezing room full of dead bodies to which she had to discover when, how and why they had died. Of course, this was just standard job procedure, as her real goal was to study a disease she'd been (cursed, fortunate, terrified, grateful?) lucky enough to find. She still couldn't pinpoint some exact details and her extra shifts would sometimes deter her from her original research, but in time, maybe next year on her residency, she would be able to post her thesis and maybe, find a cure. She had to; she felt she owed the diseased at least that, for all he'd done for her, and maybe, she would allow him to finally rest from all the symptoms it carried with it.

Immortality becomes a pain in the ass after 800 years, if what her patient tells her is true.

How to begin with her patient? I mean, considering him to be one of the world's oldest walking, breathing history textbook. Hell, he could become World Heritage if he wasn't so jaded (and childish. How a man with an approximate life span of 839 years acted _childish_ when the mood struck was beyond her. She preferred it over brooding, though) it's hard to give a good description, more so when he just tells bits and pieces.

Male, of, err, Arabic heritage? He'd mentioned something about the _Third Crusades_ , a town then called Masyaf, hell, _Genghis Khan_ but then he'd gone about _Renaissance Italy._ How do you make a jump from the early 1100's to the 1460's? I'm telling you, World Heritage icon (did I mention he was BFF with _the_ Leonardo da Vinci?). Age on tentative 800 something, something years, clinically impossible but real, because she saw him every night, cross my heart, hope to die. Malady started after confirmed infection when he was twenty four (that's a fuckload of years by the way. Ugh, math, as if she didn't get enough of it), but patient refuses to explain exact matter of infection. Symptoms include… well, see this is the hard part. I mean, vampirism isn't something that affects everyone the same, or so she's been told. But then again, she only has two cases, and one of them is _insane_.

Regardless,she had atleast some concrete symptoms. Patient has extreme photosensitivity and sunburns, err, immediately (as in, literally. You know, burst into fucking flames, she's seen this on her Petri dish and she still can't figure out _how_ ). Light allergy to garlic, but patient confirms this has been since birth (she still remembers laughing herself stupid over this. He wasn't amused). Suffers from Lazarus phenomenon which has allowed subject to keep waking up day after day (after week, after month, after year, after century, etc), but remains in a catatonic almost dead state at daylight. Heart rate reduces to less than three beats _per hour_ , brain activity ceases unless he forces himself to stay conscious, breathing becomes close to nil, appearance deteriorates, skin becomes blueish gray and body temperature drops to an unhealthy 82 °F. She's also confirmed a very strange group of chronic leukemia, which completely destroys the blood cells currently in his body, needing to replenish the equal nutrients, minerals and just general composition of it in less than one month (fancy words for he has to feed every once a month or he starts going downhill).

These are all pretty science words for _'Oh My Fucking God, I Found an Actual Vampire I Think I Just Shat Myself_ '. If she published a book, she'd win billions.

Desmond Miles, as he was calling himself now, was one of a kind indeed and she still couldn't believe that he'd agreed to let her study him and maybe, find a cure (he'd rolled his eyes at this and had joked that he would become dust if she cured him. She did _not_ find it funny). She owed him as much, she always would. In the process she could maybe cure the other one too (they called him Sixteen. Even Desmond didn't know his name and it was bad considering they'd been stuck together since about 300 years ago).

Pathology had become her passion the moment she'd found out Desmond's… 'condition' might be a treatable ailment, but she was always warned not to keep her hopes up (she never listened). Her goal wasn't to repay back what he'd given her (not enough, trust me) but at the very least, allow Desmond and Sixteen to finally _rest_. Desmond would always compare it to walking in an eternal desert with tiny oasis spread apart, only to be violently devoured by sandstorms and she pitied them both for it, regardless of the more bestial factors of their sickness. That was the rest she wanted to provide, because the real rest Desmond always tended to search for was frightening.

Maybe one day she would find the cure. For now, she hid and took care of them as best as she could.

* * *

"So he was cute, and then?"

"I kissed him quiet. I thought he was gonna punch the old jaw out but he just blushed, said bye and staggered away."

Lucy laughed as she watched Desmond easily balance himself on the railing of the rafters. The old warehouse they used as a house (home, sweet home) was full of these, places the vampire could skitter about when it was still too early to call it a night and he was in no mood to be outside. He was in higher spirits than she'd seen him in years and this made her happy. He'd been moody lately, and it didn't help that Sixteen was going through a tantrum.

"Did you get his phone number? Facebook? Twitter? Email? Any way to get smoke signals to him? I heard that's pretty hardcore now a days."

"Oh, sure, make fun of the old guy. Nah, I know where goes about, his scent's real easy to pick up."

"Desmond, that's known in some places as stalking."

He laughed, taking a leap and vanishing from view. Ah, they were playing again. She kept her ears sharp and her breathing down. He'd taught her how, even how to move without a sound. What came naturally to him had taken her most of her life to learn. "Not really." His voice answered, although it didn't seem to have a direction in particular. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to follow him everywhere he goes."

"That sounds familiar." She felt the shift, the air moving behind her, no sound except for the prickling of her hair at the back of her neck. She spun and clicked her tongue when he caught her leg in his hand with a surprised face. "You should stop that. You're going to give someone a heart attack."

"I'm affronted that you were going to kick me. Doesn't your old man get any respect?"

She hit him in the shin for good measure.

* * *

There was a soft sound, a light clicking she could hear in the freezer. She made a face of disbelief and pulled Desmond out. He stared at her with guilt, the cellphone still in his hands.

"Texting? You were about to be found out because of texting? Centuries of silence, being the alpha male, stricking terror into the hearts of people and _texting_ was going to be your downfall?"

"This is the first time I feal really naked, but to answer your question, I could always kill the witness." He smiled, albeit sheepish.

"Why didn't you tell me it was Shaun? When you said you found this cute British guy and you were actually going on a date, I didn't expect it to be _Shaun._ Of all the British in the world, you chose the one I know. I feel like that song."

He watched her rub her temples with an irritated frown. He couldn't help but smile. "Stacy's Mom?"

"Except it's Lucy's Dad."

He burst into laughter.

"I'm going to kill you if I have to call Shaun stepdad."

"We're not that close. Not yet."

She placed her hands on her hips as he merrily answered back whatever it was he was writting. She was crazy wasn't she? "But you want to."

"Yes."

"And does he want to?"

"He's been answering all my texts. I'm guessing yes. It's the scar I tell you, irresistble."

"Along with the accompanying stench of death. When was the last time you ate?"

He made a face. "Mooom, but I don't wanna eat my greens."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

There was silence after that. It wasn't strange, just, well, it _is_ odd to be talking to someone clinically considered to be a corpse and the only thing said corpse is doing is texting himself silly. The black body bag wasn't helping. They were having a silent glaring contest and for a moment, Lucy wanted to ask what was really bothering her, the real thing she was upset about, but she trusted Desmond. She'd ask him later. He'd been able to take care of her, so Shaun would be no problem, right?

She smirked "I'm not paying your bill."

He leered. " _I'll_ stop paying yours."

"Oh, now that's low." She walked away, nose in the air as Desmond laughed and tried to make her stay. She couldn't help but smile in satisfaction when she heard him crash to the floor.

* * *

Sobbing. Soft and low, ondulating between high cries and low moans, interjected by pitiful crying and wild gibberish. Lucy watched as Desmond growled and grumbled in Arabic, fingers busy stitching Sixteen up. Two weeks ago, after an especially bad episode, he'd escaped and roamed about Chicago. The authorities kept calling them animal maulings, but Lucy knew it was Sixteen in a panic attack. Desmond had finally sprung to action when he'd received a text from Shaun telling him he'd seen a white blur outside of his apartment. No doubt Sixteen had gone there in search of Desmond, his scent rather prominent with his visits to the Brit.

"Did you have to be so harsh on him?"

Desmond glared, teeth becoming sharp as he bit the string and began with the other long laceration on Sixteen's back. It had been brutal, but with those horrible change of moods he had, it was the only way to keep her 'Uncle' in check.

"We let him be in the warehouse without any locks and the first thing he does is run away to look for me. Yes, it was necessary."

"You know he's almost glued to you."

"That's besides the point."

There was a high wail as, almost on purpose, the same fingers that were healing him dug to cause pain. Even now, Lucy didn't understand why Sixteen clinged so obsessively to Desmond if the other only hurt him. Then again, Sixteen hurt Desmond worse _without even intedning to_. Which was the worst of two evils, she'd never know.

"I-I-I'm so, sorry, I, I didn't... The moon, she... I'm so sorry, Desmond, I'm so, so sorry..."

They both frowned as Sixteen went on to his thirteenth round of apologies. He was so _broken_. She always wondered what had happened to make him into this sopping mess."It's alright." He murmured, going back to the task as the smaller murmured to himself, bandaged fingers touching his own mouth nervously, movements jittery. "But what you did was wrong. Weren't you supposed to stay and take care of Lucy?"

"L-Lu.. Lucy? I didn't, didn't take care. Lucy, is she, is she angry? She is... SHE IS! YOU ARE! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

Lucy ran our as quickly as she could. All she could do was get out and wait, because the only one who could calm him was Desmond. It was hours later that she watched as Desmond cleaned his hands, a long nasty gash across his stomach messing the hoodie and threatning to spill his guts out.

"Is he asleep or did you knock him out again?"

"Asleep, for once. He'll start screaming in an hour, mark my words."

Watching Desmond sit on the floor made her frown. He always did that when he was particularly tired, not to mention he was barefoot. Another bad sign. The hoodie went off and she was already sitting besides him with the medical kit always kept close. You never knew with Sixteen.

Sixteen suffered from... everything. Paranoia, schizophrenia, bipolarity, anxiety, psychosis, depression, stress, all mixed into a cocktail and forced into the younger man's bloodstream, just to see what would happen, just how fucked up and broken he could come out. These wounds, the chuck of flesh missing from Desmond's neck, the cut on his forehead that kept his left eye closed, the jarring open wound on his stomach that barely contained his intestines, his old scar open until it met his cheekbone, the cuts, the bruises littered about, all of these and so much more, all signs of his sickness.

Effects may vary.

"He didn't mean to. You know he didn't." That was the worst part.

"He never does." That was the sad part.

" _Shaun and Desmond sitting on a tree!"_

 _"K-K-K-K. I. S. S I, I, I. N. G."_

 _"_ You too? Since when is it fair to pair up against me?"

Lucy hummed and looked down where Sixteen sat, rocking himself softly and clutching to her legs like a small child would. In a few hours, she would have to take him to the warehouse and put him in the big metal freezer so he could go to sleep, just like Desmond was about to do.

"My ear hurts because of you. Becca didn't think it was funny that you were hussling in her room."

"What's, what, what is huss... hussling?"

The blonde smiled at her uncle. Sometimes he could be so naïve.

"We'll tell you when you're older."

"How about we don't tell him at all? You know, keep the moral value nice and on top?"

There was a small noise, a vibration and she stared in disbelief as he took out from besides him a cellphone. He smiled warmly, although that changed when she took it from his hands. Worse off, she pocketed it.

"Hey! That's mine! C'mon, Luce, cut me some slack!"

"No way in hell, go to sleep already. I had to lie out of my ass that it might have been somebody's phone. If you don't want me telling it's post-mortem gases, let me zip you up already so I can get some sleep myself."

"T-T-The bloat stage provides the first clear visual sign that, that microbial proliferation is underway. In this stage, anaerobic metabolism takes place, leading to the accumulation of gases, such as hydro-hydrogen su-sulphide,ca-carbon dioxide, and methane. The accumulation of gases within the, with the, within bodily cavity causes the distention of the abdomen and gives a cadaver its overall bloated appearance. R-R-Right?"

She smiled and passed a hand through the wild mop of hair. Sometimes, these little moments made everything worth it. Sixteen nice and calm, Desmond without a worry, herself not as stressed. This right here was why she was trying to cure them.

"That's right."

"You owe him a cookie. "

She glared at the man smiling, sitting inside a bag for a cadaver. Oh, the irony of it all. "Oh, go to sleep you!"

The body bag was zipped back up, even as he laid down with laughter. She pushed the freezer back in and heard no more noises, only Sixteen murmuring to himself, smiling.

 _A/N: Right on time! UPDATED : Added some things, thanks to Alexa for pointing out t he mistake, I was exhausted though when I finished this and had no time to check xD I think I just lost my readers..._


	5. Hate List

It was impossible. He was hallucinating. One Shaun Hastings could not believe what he was listening, apart from the moaning and groaning and something else he couldn't register but that his mind immediately thought out what it was (nothing to do with low self-esteem, that's just ridiculous).

"C'mon, Becca, hurry up."

"Not my fault you're so slow! Stop it with the squirming. You think he'll mind when he sees us?"

"It's kind of possible he'll call us traitors and have a cow. But maybe he can join us."

"Shaun isn't one for threesomes, Des, he's greedy."

At this point, Shaun, who was eavesdropping through the door, was slack-jawed and unable to believe he was being back-stabbed. The guy he'd been having hopes with, the insufferable twit was cheating on him (not truly cheating as they weren't, well, you know, an item or anything. Not that that'd they ever be, but regardless!) He plastered himself closer to the door, brown eyes wide behind his skewed glasses as they kept talking. The old ladies across the hall were giving him weird looks, but blast them, this was important!

"C'mon, Desmond, hurry up!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying! Fuck, this is tight."

Bloody hell, they were _fucking_? This was all some clever plan to bang Rebecca? He knew a man like that could not possibly be gay. He had a bike, he did parkour, he had a tattoo, and he had a wonderfully toned body (how he got this last part is strictly personal information).

"Oh my god, shoot it! Fucking shoot it, Desmond, shoot it! The goddamn Smoker choking me, shoot it!"

"I'm on it, I'm on it!"

He knew it, all those days, well, nights, with them having nice conversations and pressing of lips (not really kissing) and that one time in the apartment on the couch when they…wait what? Finally deciding that something about the conversation had turned from steamy sex to bizarre, Shaun opened the door as they both turned to look at him, the game placed on pause. They were playing a stupid game on one of Becca's many console games earned through her own sweat and blood (she made terrible menstrual jokes about that, being the fine lady she was). Shaun stared stupidly as Desmond got up with a smile on his face, completely forgetting the game with Rebecca huffing in annoyance.

"Hey Shaun, sorry I just dropped by, should of told you, but I wanted to surprise you."

Shaun only bleakly nodded his head, face aflame as he felt the light kiss on his cheek and Rebecca's laughter.

"I bet he thought we were fucking!"

Desmond at least had the decency to splutter.

* * *

Shaun had very little patience to Desmond's popping in and out of existence (Rebecca said the man had mastered teleportation but he shot that down by telling her he would not submit to her explanation until scientific evidence was presented. She told him to fuck off.) The problem wasn't his near death experiences or the fact that sometimes he would be left mid-sentence (rude. But then again, he's American, what could you expect). No, see it was the part where Desmond _didn't mean to do it._

That's right, you read that right (and repeating of the word 'right' is also correctly used, thank you). He would pop in when Shaun least expected it with this ridiculous dopey smile and a bright hello, patiently waiting for Shaun's heart-attack to settle down. This told him that the man was so eager to see him he'd literally force himself into existence through sheer force of will just for Shaun's amusement (at least that's what Shaun thought. It was sweet in a would-you-knock-that-shit-out sort of way). Or those moments when Shaun would off-handedly say he left something in someplace and Desmond would no longer be there, only to reappear on his apartment with aforementioned item and apologize for not being faster. Not to mention when Shaun would complain about lack of groceries, lack of funding, lack of anything really, and Desmond would bring him anything he'd need, only because he whined a tiny bit or those gorgeous pieces of art he'd give him because "I thought you'd like it."

So while the actions, while really sweet and endearing, where not making Shaun uncomfortable, it was the emotion so deeply engrained to them that had him nervous and hissy and just plain out biting.

Love is something you're just not used to, at all. And when presented to you in a silver platter, you freak out, or in Shaun's case, call the guy an insane city monkey, or a posh show off, or a rude asshole. He wonders if Desmond is aware, because he always only smiles and lets it easily slide off like the Brit isn't insulting him with barbed wire and acid.

All he does is nod his head, or hug him and tell him he loves him too, or kiss him quiet, and it's those actions that make Shaun think on future tense about their status.

Not to mention he smacks him right in the face and the wanker only laughs. A man that takes that sort of beating is not only insane but committed. Rebecca insists he's a keeper but he's already told her she can get her opinion and stick it where the sun does not settle its UV rays on.

* * *

"This is inadmissible."

"Shaun, c'mon, listen to me-"

"No, no, no! Why did you not tell me this! I mean, I thought we had whatever the hell this is!"

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? Excuse me?"

Shaun waved in front of Desmond a black book with a pair of hands holding an apple. " _Twilight!_ You like _Twilight!_ I can't be seen with a man that likes, _"_ He made a face, holding the book by the tip of the cover like some vermin with rabies (and fleas. Don't forget those). "This thing, because you cannot call it a book and get away with it, more like a book stand. I will not mingle with anyone who reads this, this _abomination._ It is an insult to literature everywhere, not to mention it's-" He used his free hand to make quotation marks "Author', was possibly on some sort of drug or hallucinogen when she wrote this."

"It's better than the real thing." Desmond answered with a shrug. Shaun's shoulders flopped down, his face etched with disbelief. He was making his Goldfish Impersonation as well.

"The _real thing_ , Desmond, really, that's your answer? Oh, I'm sure it is on your little fantasy world where vampires and werewolves exist and I'm sure there are also pedophiliac and bestiality enthusiasts out there that share your opinion."

"Are you calling me old or cradle robber? That hurts me and makes me sad on the face." He was smiling as he said this, the arse.

"I am not calling you a vampire, that's what I am not doing but I will call you a bloody twat. I doubt you to be a robber of any sorts because not only am I older than you, you simply don't have the mental capacity to rob anything, much less myself."

Desmond snickered. "Sure, Shaun, whatever you say."

Shaun threw the book on the parkourist's face as he laughed himself silly. "I'm not going out with you, I am not interacting with you, go away, leave me alone you Twitard."

"But Shaun-"

"No! And get your crummy hands off me! You've touched that filth. I will not allow you to touch me with those hands!"

* * *

Shaun isn't really sure what he likes about Desmond. The man is infuriating, childish, annoying and by the heaven's he's terrible with anything pertaining social etiquette (the last is a lie, but he likes to pile more negative aspects on the fool to outweigh any good there is, if any). The man practically follows him like some lost puppy, slobber and yips included, and yet for some strange reason, he tends to allow the man to come over to his apartment, or whisk him away on some social outing (they're not dates, alright! Knock it off! And don't you laugh, he's not in denial, that's ridiculous, there's nothing to be in denial of!)

Rebecca always makes a comment on what a nice couple they make, but Shaun is not so keen on that idea, mainly because _they're both men_. Which would mean that Shaun is gay, which he'd be if the word would be used in a context pertaining happiness (and even then, the happiness part is debatable). He's not gay, never was and never would be. The kisses and the hugs and the sitting together in the couch in amiable silence are just signs of... (uh, bromance? After all, if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were capable of it, why not him and Desmond?) Not to mention that, even if in the remote possibility he might consider Miles as a candidate to be his (wince now) boyfriend, he still has many things which simply do not garner in his 'positive attributes' list (no he has not done it.)

Like the parkour thing. Really now, going about buildings and rooftops and cars and whatever else it is they jump over to get from point A to point B is not so impressive. Even if the Brit himself saw it when he expressed curiosity, it does not mean he likes it. Why would he like it when Desmond jumps from one place to another, muscles straining and sometimes some of his stomach revealing because of his movements? or how he looks afterwards, flushed and sweaty and panting with his lips in a small smile, those goddamn lips stretching the scar which he just wants to- (excuse me, that was a rather large run-on sentence and we will be moving to something else wrong with Desmond).

A motorbike? Really? On top of that, a tattoo? If he chose two overly cliché things, a bike and a tattoo were on top of his list. The worst part was that it was some tribal tattoo which his mind readily supplied patterns and glyphs and other trivial information. Although the design did slightly garner his interest because it was a symbol he couldn't pin. It seemed trivial at first glance, but once he'd asked to fully see it (for research purpose of course) and he'd found that it wasn't some silly badly chosen tribal tattoo (he even foolishly thought it might have been engraved on his skin, but that was even more ridiculous and completely improbable, but he has his doubts because the moment he touched it, it did feel separate). He's also a bit confused by a strange letter 'A' engraved in the curve of his back (uh, he was, uh, admiring the-never mind, moving on). The bike was a, what did the bloke say, a Ducati Desmode-something-whatever (figures it'd have his name). He has no idea what it is or the make or anything important about it but he has Rebecca investigate. She comes back with the information that his brand in particular is not only rare, but expensive as fuck. To his horror, it is also one of the five _legally_ fastest bikes, which meant it was a two-wheeled deathtrap.

( _He does not like it at all. He doesn't like it when Desmond takes him out for a ride. Sure as hell doesn't like the way he gets a thrill out of something exciting in a life where 'exciting' is finding out someone placed their book back where it belongs. And above all, he doesn't like how he has to pin himself to Desmond, hold him tight so he won't fall, the air snapping against them, the other laughing, asking "You having fun?")_

His schedule, not to mention his moronic penchant for, for, _Twilight_ (shudder now) _._ He only sees him at ungodly hours of the night and he's told the bloody wanker that this stupid vampire obsession is getting out of hand. After all, he's living from eight at night to god knows when. Lucy herself tells him he has all this conflicting night jobs which he might or might not go to (like being a comelier. In other words, the idiot tastes wines for restaurants and they pay him _30,000 to 50,000 bloody dollars_. They even bloody fight over him. He doesn't know if this means the wanker's a lot more cultured than he lets on. Then again, we're talking about _Desmond_ here). His weird ass jobs include the normal bartending to _taxi driver_ and even working as a janitor _at morgues._ He's baffled at this because the first one seemed just about enough, but the blonde tells him that whenever he's not with Shaun, he keeps himself occupied with whatever he wants to do that night. Not only is it odd, it's, well, strange. Why would _anyone_ want to work as a janitor! (No offense to any janitors, but do have in mind you are cleaning up after corpses. You placed yourself in this situation).

 _Twilight._ God have mercy on the Queen, why _Twilight!_ He's caught the man reading all the bloody books at different times, but really, could he have not chosen something else! Hell, even Harry bloody Potter would have been better (the ending was disgusting in literary status by the way). The twat insists it's a prettier version of the real thing and in retaliation, Shaun makes scathing jokes about the book or about Desmond's actions being very what's-his-name-Cullen like. But the worst part, he isn't only contained to It (he refuses to keep calling it by name, least the woman be summoned from the bowels of hell itself). He's read and seen almost all vampire movies, books, and comics. Shaun cannot stress the utter disbelief he felt when Lucy told him this, all the while laughing because Desmond was begging her (threatening in French) not to do it (she actually answered something back and he frowned).

As you can see by the overwhelming evidence, one fact is true. Shaun Hastings does not like Desmond Miles.

* * *

"Hey."

Casual wave. Casual snark.

"Hello Desmond, go away."

"I have tickets." Bribe.

"I'm sure you do." Dodge.

"What if I told you it's for the opening ceremony of that museum exhibit you've wanted to go?"

Hook.

"...You listened? Why I'm impressed. You actually have some memory retaining abilities."

Hesitate.

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow night."

Bite your lip. Line.

"I thought you said you didn't like those things."

"But you do."

Reel in, smile. Frown, mull over.

"Fine. I'm not paying a single thing though; you _are_ inviting me after all."

"Sure, can't wait to see you in a tux."

Sinker.

"Very funny, Miles."

* * *

For the past fifteen minutes, Rebecca gives him this look which he can't help but feel is the one sign of impending apocalypse he's been mentally preparing himself to accept. That or she's about to make a really nasty comment. Making it here, with over twenty people in a diner and with Desmond and Lucy close, you can just tell it's going to be hell.

"So Desmond, about that finger."

And quickly it seems. The ignorant fool gives a 'hm?' and looks up from his lone glass of water (he insists he already ate. It still looks weird with all three of them with plates and him having nothing but that lone cup), not to mention he stops from trying to take hold of Shaun's hand, the right hand playing with the straw leaving it very visible and his missing ring finger very obvious. Rebecca's smiling from ear to ear like a monster of sorts, maybe a hyena, comparable to a lioness as well and Lucy stopped half-way through her spoonful of chicken soup (she'd been rather fluey lately. Yes that's a word, jam a sock in it).

"Mind sharing the story?"

Desmond blinks and Shaun is reminded of how stupid he can be. He looks at his hand and shows it to them. It looks odd and strange where the finger no longer is, the scar tissue almost unseen. It seems old and Shaun would be under torture to admit that he actually likes holding that hand better (let's not start on fetish things, please).

"Well, it's not that exciting."

"Bullshit, you lost a _finger_. That alone is exciting, c'mon. Cough up."

A clever kick under the table should shut the tech-geek up but the one to wail out is Lucy who kicks him back (and two-fold. Why is a he friend with women stronger than him?)

"Alright, alright. Back when I was, I don't know, seventeen? Some friends were doing this ritual thing to see who'd become part of a... club. It involved hacking your finger off. That's just about it."

They all stared at him.

"You lopped your bloody finger off to _belong to a club?"_ It's official now. Desmond is an idiot.

"They didn't really give you a choice, Shaun."

"You were forced to be part of a club, and then you allowed your finger to be lopped off?"

"Now you're making me sound stupid."

" _I'm_ making you-! You chopped your finger off for a club!"

Have you seen those times in movies when the whole restaurant stops whatever they're doing to stare at the crazy person who just yelled? Mr. Hastings is the current crazy person wilting away and trying his best to hide himself under the table. Maybe get Lucy to choke him to death with her legs. The place goes back to being full of talking people and Desmond rubs his back reassuringly. At least the discussion is over.

"So what type of club was it?"

Damn Rebecca to hell and back.

* * *

Everyone is used to suffering. Their mind is engraved with the idea that, if you suffer, just for some time, you will find true happiness, true love. Your parents tell you stories of hardships, of sleepless nights, and pain. Blood, sweat and tears. They tell you how you'll go out in the world and how you'll repeat the process, but you'll get what you want if you endure, if you just grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up, because eventually you'll find happiness.

Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you instead.

All this time, you search desperately, so is it any surprise when happiness finds you, you're not very happy? You're confused and you think, this isn't right. Your parents told you to suffer as much as possible. Is this half-happiness then? Maybe the method is right and you have to suffer a bit more. You turn away from it and search again.

This is how Shaun lost Kat.

He thought it was too easy, too simple, so he merely let go, thinking that if he suffered a bit more, he'd find someone better. For a long time, he finds no one, and just like everyone else, he filled himself up with regret and maybes and cussing at his own idiocy. He's just about ready to give up, stop searching because it's useless, just how everybody eventually does, heartbroken and tear stained because no one will ever love you like how you want. Everyone is used to suffering, and Shaun hides his pain, just like how everyone does, grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up.

People hide it differently. Dig it deep into yourself, smile everyday even if you're crashing inside. Shaun's brand lashes out and snaps at everyone, wear it on your sleeve and use it as a weapon. No one is used to happiness because it leaves no scar. We're all so used to suffering that happiness is a stranger to us.

Maybe this is why Shaun pushes Desmond away.

He's tried to rationalize the many ways they will crash and burn, how much suffering that will cause and the happiness that will come later, because all good things must come to an end. He finds about thirty different ways they'll fall and smash to the ground. Another twenty how they'll become 'just another couple'. At least fifteen where one of them will cheat. Eight where they have to split for some unspecified reason. Three more where one of them dies, even both. With all these rational thoughts, all these 'do not proceeds', then why are they still seeing each other?

Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you.

All those things he tells himself he hates and abhors about Desmond's behavior, truth is, he likes it. He likes the parkour, because the scarred man is the only one he personally knows who can walk on a rooftop edge without fear of falling (he'd shit himself first before even _approaching_ the edge). The bike, the tattoo, he fucking loves them because it's common in a different way. He doesn't know how to explain it, but it is. Even his stupid schedule and his stupid Twilight obsession, they make him less of a guy, more of a friend, someone he can tease and joke around with. And the man part? Who is he kidding, he wants to bugger the guy into the mattress. His dreams are more than happy to oblige to those thoughts.

Shaun isn't used to happiness, but maybe this time, he'll oblige. After all, the suffering will make the result all that much better.

* * *

"Hey."

The Brit gives a hum to show he's listening. They're on the couch, neither on the mood to go out. Desmond is a great big blanket on top of him while the historian searches for channels, something that isn't mediocre or mind-numbing. For all it's worth, he's just channel surfing. What people now call zapping (which is ironic because he's always snapping at Rebecca not to do it).

"Can I ask you something?"

"It's 'may' not 'can'. Simple grammar. Yes, you may. I hope it's better than what I'm doing."

They're here in the couch when they could be anywhere. This is the point where he wonders if this is what he wants. Reminds him of corny novels he doesn't read. This is where the fact that he's a total closet sap slaps him in the face, right there, in the cheek, leaving a big red mark.

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

Maybe it's because the scarred man knows how fragile this is that he words his question carefully. Can I, instead of Would you. Or maybe he's just being a dick.

"Well I suppose you could, if, you know, you weren't such an insufferable prat. But then again, if I don't reign you in, you'll probably go off to pester some other person and while other people's lives do not concern me, I won't hear the end of it from Lucy."

And the bloody idiot's just smiling from ear to ear, leaning on his knees and elbows to press lips to lips, and he's smiling too. We're not used to happiness, we hate the person we love. It's not always like in those novels he doesn't read, but this suffices for the moment. He has to kick him though when he gropes his ass. So much for a sweet moment.


	6. Deadlines Equal Aphrodisiacs

According to Wikipedia (because he can't be arsed to search more thoroughly), intimacy generally refers to the feeling of being in a close personal association and belonging together. It is a familiar and very close affective connection with another as a result of a bond that is formed through knowledge and experience of the other. At this point, he has known Desmond for three months and they somehow function, although he himself is not sure how this is possible. After all, their schedules crash, they constantly fight (more like argue, and those are sometimes one-sided. Lazy American), and he sure as hell hasn't even treaded the dark waters of sex (no, he's not afraid, that is ludicrous, he _is not some virgin woman_. Just a virgin man). They've tousled about sometimes, usually instigated by Desmond (the sex-fiend), they now go out to those dreadful parties Rebecca always dragged him to (he can complain to Desmond all he wants with the infuriating prick smiling all the while), and all in all, his life has become far more active both in the night and in daytime as well.

Which is rather odd considering Desmond can't go into the sunlight (he keeps insisting this is part of his stupid vampire obsession but Lucy actually confirmed that the man has some sort of acute photosensitivity. It doesn't explain his goddamn tan by the way), and for some reason people now tell him he seems more approachable (Rebecca says with a shit-eating grin that he's been _humming_ lately. He blatantly denies this.)

It's been a wonderful couple of weeks, blissful even (dear Lord, he's going sappy), filled with nights full of Desmond, better work days and great school evenings when It comes. The fires of Hell Itself descend upon him and all his classmates as the dreaded Midterms smite them all with the wrath of an unforgiving toddler (they can be right bastards). Now, this is the point where he scoffs at everyone panicking and pulling all-nighters trying to cram while abandoning all social life to finish the twenty page essay you were supposed to be working on _three months ago_ because in his case, he's already passing his tests with flying colors and cleaning the details out of his thirty page essay.

At least, that's what happened last semester.

 _This_ semester, he's actually part of the student body _panicking_ and ripping himself from all human contact because _oh my fucking god, I've done absolutely nothing may god have mercy on our souls_ (insert copious amounts of screaming and cussing). See, this is why Shaun has no social life. Without social impediments, he can concentrate head-on in his work. Miles, however, kept him constantly preoccupied and ridiculously love stuck (yes, stuck) on his cellphone, ignoring all those little warnings he'd left to get ready for his assignments. Even now, immersed fully in a book and ignoring everything except some man named Al-Mualim (why are there so little resources! He just had to pick conspiracies didn't he! Bright idea there, chap! Stunning!), his cellphone is buzzing in his back pocket, and he can almost hear the American whine.

He can bugger off for all he cares; his grades are on the line here dammit!

There's a frustrated snarl when the book only gives vague references about an assassin order and its subsequent downfall when the next master suddenly disappears (what the hell kind of name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?) leaving a whole order and a pregnant woman like headless chickens (this amuses him for a total of 3 milliseconds before he's back to raiding the library). He keeps searching, practically on the brink of ( _not_ tears) ripping his hair off when he finds there's an old text that can give him a bit more information. His momentary high spirits are brutally slaughtered when he finds the text is in _bloody Syria._

Somebody please bring a defibrilator.

The worst part is there are _no images whatsoever_. None. Nada. The only thing that comes out is a strange 'A' shaped symbol, but nothing else (and it somehow seems familiar, like he's seen it somewhere) so he gets that and races to the department where, with a wince, he dives deep into the horrid recesses of the internet. He finds a bit more then stops dead on his tracks when he _finally_ (insert chorus of singing angels) finds an image of the bugger (he's bloody fugly by the way).

It infuriates him how laid-back Rebecca is because the goddamn wench didn't even try to finish her economics paper saying that she'd just drop the lowest grade. Like hell he'd do that. Of course, in a manner of weeks, she goes from making fun of him to trying every conceivable thing possible to get him to eat. No time for that! He _has_ to finish this, and by his standards!

Behind the Brit's back and finally at her wit's end, Rebecca slyly takes Shaun's phone and sends several texts. She couldn't move him at all, but she knew there was at least one person capable of making him eat (or sleep. He was running on his third day with nothing but coffee and _her_ Monsters. That was just plain unacceptable)

* * *

 _Wat do u mean he hasn been eatin?_

 _yeah, im srs. just keeps wrkn on his stpd prjects :P he's all shaun of the lvng ded_

 _fml. fine, heading over_

 _BRINGT TAKE OUT_

 _wat! its ur turn!_

 _yea but ur the one comin over :3_

 _bitch_

 _fag_

 _  
_

* * *

Alright. He'd found some shady blog advertising something called a _'Codex'_. It'd arrive sometime next month, not the best time as he only had two months to finish everything, but from that to nothing, it was acceptable. Curiously, the woman who'd sold it to him seemed relieved to rid herself of it, mentioning something about the object being wildly searched by some monster. He'd scoffed at this, and was surprised to read he'd be receiving more than he bargained. In his honest opinion, it sounded quite much like some cheap horror movie hook up. He rolled his eyes, printed the receipt and went back to his paper.

Monsters. _As if_.

"Hey."

One of these days he was going to throw his heart out (violently, so Desmond would die out of guilt.)

"M-Miles, bloody hell, knock that off!"

"Sorry. What's this I hear about you not eating?"

He snarled. _"Rebecca."_

 _"_ Yes, her. She's worried. She also demands you stop hogging the Wi-Fi. She needs to go on a raid this week."

"Oh that's wonderful; I'll go ahead and stop my work so she can get back to her internet life. Has she mentioned she's going to fail one of her subjects because she's too lazy to start on her projects?"

"She mentioned you don't have to turn the _draft_ of one your works until next month."

"Exactly. Do you understand then, how completely lagging I am? I have practically close to nil resources, I need to make several reviews and I also need to-"

It's hard to keep up with an argument when you have a pair of lips on your own. When the bloody git parted and lingered there, with a bag behind his back, he chuckled and murmured.

"I have those dumplings you like and shrimp lo mein."

...curses, the fool knew his weakness! The brown of his eyes slimmed considerably as he glared at the twinkling black.

 _"Fine."_

May it be on record that he tried his bloody damndest to resist his stupid face. The table was cleared of its precious contents and the food was placed neatly in front of Shaun (the bastard even had a thermos of _real_ Earl Grey for him. Not that he felt _pampered_ or anything). It always made him curious, watching everyone around Desmond eat and the man never taking a bite, not even when it was offered. He'd seen him drink water, cokes, even energy drinks, but he'd never seen him take a bite. He chewed the thought out (along with his lo mein) and gave him a suspicious glare to which the scarred man only smiled pleasantly. See? Idiot, that was all he was!

"Why have I never watched you eat?"

"Because I-"

"Eat before you get here, yes, yes, but I haven't even seen you take even a piece of bubblegum to your mouth. What, are your tastes too refined for what I eat?"

In a matter of seconds, the smile went from pleasant to rueful, and he chuckled darkly, like he was laughing at some morbid inner joke.

"More like my diet is a little too gross for you."

"Oh come now, what are you, a vegan?"

That glint again of amusement. The Brit watched un-amused as Desmond shifted in his seat and leaned back precariously on the feet of it.

"I'm a humanitarian."

Shaun made a face. "What does that have to do with eating habits?"

"Nothing, Shaun, just a joke. Ask Becca, I'm sure she'll know. Now that I answered your question, you answer mine."

"Which would be?"

"Why are you panicking over projects due in two months _in Spring Break?_ We should be going out, have fun by the beach or something, go to the fair, hit the clubs."

Was this moron for real? Shaun ate a considerable amount of dumplings to keep himself quiet for a bit. Of course that didn't work for the reason that Shaun rather liked to discuss things.

"Really, Desmond? _The beach?_ What, are we going at night when it's freezing, because if I remember correctly, your skin isn't very amused with UV rays. As a matter of fact, it blisters in anger when they're acquainted."

"Night's the best time to go skinny dipping."

This close, this close to choke on his food. While Desmond was patting his back trying to remind him how to properly get food from point A to point B and definitely not to point Q, he tried his best not to envision them both very cold, very naked and very alone in the water. Still waiting for that defibrillator, by the by. He waved the other away who was by now chuckling at his beet red face and expression of mortification (one of these days he was going to get back at him. One of these days!) He glared at him, hard, to emphasize his anger but only received the infuriating calm smile. It begged to be punched.

"How about we go out right now?"

" _What?_ Alright, this is the last confirmation I needed. You're bloody insane."

"I'm serious, we could go, right now. There's close to no one there, it's quiet and peaceful. You need a break anyway."

"I do _not_ need a break, I need to finish this."

"Just this once. I'll never move you out of your work again. I'll keep bringing you food back though, I like you alive."

Have you seen those movies where one of the two is more outgoing? Does things you personally would never do? Shaun felt Desmond was like this, in these moments (if a little dense.) A second to think how ridiculous the suggestion is, and then the acceptance that it's not every day you receive such requests. It's not common, and maybe that's why it sounds so exciting. Maybe that's why a few minutes later he's clinging to him while they dodge cars and head to the beach. When they finally arrive at Loyola Park, it's almost three in the morning but he doesn't feel tired at all.

"Well would you look at that, it actually _is_ a nice view."

Desmond chuckled. The bike is stationed on the sand, with the parkourist sitting on it, looking at the lapping waves, the wind lightly ruffling his clothes. Shaun is sitting on it as well, facing the moron and wondering why they're seated like this (if he's honest, he wishes he'd been hugged, but like bloody hell he's going to admit to that.)

"I told you."

"We're not skinny dipping."

"Party pooper."

He's elbowed, thought it's more of a playful push. It amazes him how controlled Desmond is, if you watch him carefully. The way he does actions with a certain sort of calculated force. He's always considered this odd, but at least it means he won't be bruised. He's seen the man tumble with Rebecca, and they don't play nice.

"I shouldn't be here, I should be getting my resources. This is stupid and ridiculous, not to mention the epitome of sappy. A _beach_ of all things, I'm such a fool for romanticism aren't I? I swear if you go to my apartment with _roses_ come next Valentine I will-"

The man has to quit shushing him with kisses (not that they're not appreciated, just, well, never mind.) If Rebecca ever gets wind about them kissing on a beach, she'll have a field day for months to come. They part with him breathless and Desmond smiling. Makes the Brit wonder when he's not smiling.

"You've got to stop that."

He's peppering all these little kisses all over his jaw, smirking, and Shaun is dead sure Desmond feels very smug right about now. "Stop what?"

"Shutting me up with a kiss, you keep doing that when I'm _what do you think you're doing?"_

Was it always this hot? Really, they're on the beach, there's wind and the bloody git is leaning over him sucking on his Adam's apple. He's holding himself in place by the back of the bike and his heart is trying its absolute best to get out of its ribbed confinement (or maybe tap-dancing). He doesn't answer, but he looks up, and dear God he's not smiling either. Shaun wonders for a brief moment if this is how a rabbit feels when an eagle is staring down at it. They're kissing again, but it's a bit more desperate. There's something underneath and he pretty much knows it's sexual frustration (it's worse because it comes from both parties.)

They stop again, breathless and more than a little hot and bothered. Is it ironic that he feels himself smirking now? Desmond's looking at him, searching, maybe for a negative, a no-go. Carefully, his arms wrap around the redhead and he leans closer still.

"We should go back. It's rather public here."

"Hurry it up then."

They're speeding back in a blink of an eye. So much for a break what with Shaun's heart rate much faster now. He feels the nibbling sensation of fear along with excitement, doesn't know what to think, except that he's _gonna get laid._

Becca won't be able to use the virgin jokes anymore.

* * *

Have you ever had sex? Oh, yes, I've just asked that. See, movies and books and even people greatly over exaggerate it or describe it minimally, so by the end of it, you have no idea what to expect. When your first time comes, you're not as excited as you thought you'd be. After all, everyone seems to forget that whether straight or gay, _sex hurts_. Not to mention you're taught since you're a teenager that it's all rainbows and flower meadows only to learn firsthand that it's just you and someone else using all five senses (and it's going to get messy, romantic or not. _And you'll have to clean it up.)_ Also forgotten is the fact that sex _isn't perfect_ , it _can_ be fucked up, and your nerves can make something go from hot and arousing to embarrassing and hilarious in five seconds flat.

Shaun's first time (with anyone. One word and he commits murder) was... _odd._ Not odd in _holy fuck we had some real, deep, kinky shit going on,_ more like _I've no idea what the fuck just happened but it was awesome._

For starters, foreplay was... just, wow. He had no idea he was that sensitive (no, not woman sensitive, just, well. Did you know the largest sex organ we have is actually our skin? Desmond knew that. Oh, God did he know that.) They had to check if Becca was in first and then they were racing to his room like a couple of teenagers (and giggling like them. He excludes himself from this, of course.) It's nothing but tongues and hands, with the bloody git feeling under Shaun's shirt with the tip of his fingers, pressing only in certain parts, and he's thinking about the paper he still has due, the laundry that hasn't been washed, and _dear God I'm going to get fucked._

Now, here's the part where the little speech above kicks in. Shaun is so focused in what Desmond is doing that he doesn't notice his book bag on the floor, or that his feet get wrapped in it, or that he's three seconds from tripping. So when they both crash down, Desmond atop him and Shaun's glasses going askew, they just stare at each other for a couple of minutes. The laughter after this soothes their nerves (and he's not kidding. He feels a little less stressed and terrified as shit. He's still terrified, but not as much.) and the elephant trying to make residence in the room goes away.

Desmond is chuckling as he kisses him, and its this tiny moment that calms their hormones a bit. "That was embarrassing."

"Entirely your fault by the way. Attacking me like some crazed teenager."

The glasses are placed in their rightful place, with almost revered care. Shaun doesn't know if he should take them off or keep them on. What the hell do you do when you have glasses and you're about to have sex? Wear contact lenses?

"We don't have to do this."

It's so sudden it takes several minutes for it to register in his brain (after all, his blood is in another place.)

" _What?_ Oh, bloody hell, no! You've been a nice lad not hurrying it up and all, but there's a limit and I'm very much human, so I have very human needs! We are going to shag, we are going to enjoy ourselves, and we are doing it now before I rationalize it so I can brag about it tomorrow!"

He'll change a few things here and there, but hey, who cares.

"You look cute when you're flustered."

" _Oh shut up and kiss me already."_

There's no better way to say that. Hell, they even stay there for a little bit (and the little thought comes in; he hasn't swept the bloody floor). He's about to snarl that he wants to be on the bed when the act itself takes place, not on the goddamn floor, when he's being taken by the hips and raised up on said furniture with ease. Does he eat that little or is Desmond that toned? They're on that part where they start taking articles of clothing off when he remembers.

"Wait, wait, wait!"

 _What?_ Weren't you the one saying something about fucking and fucking _now?"_

He gives him a slap of sorts because adults or not, that is some crude language right there (not that it's arousing. No, not at all.)

"Condom. And bloody lube. You have it or we don't do jack."

"Of course I have some, what am I? An idiot?"

When the items are take from the hoodie he was just wearing, he can't help but stare incredulously. _How did he not notice that!_

 _"What the-_? Did you always carry that?"

"You never know."

"Bollocks, you always knew, you wanker."

See? Good example of the afore mentioned paragraph. One minute hot and sexy, next it looks like a pre-acted sitcom. At least he was completely entertained (and aroused. That's a big bonus right there.) After the little Condom/Lube Catastrophe is averted and the jeans are the next to go, his jittery fears are right back and in front row seats when he sees, _really_ sees Desmond. That question about him being toned? Yeah, he's a fucking sculpted god. Now, if he could only hide his flat stomach, that'd be wonderful and they'd be even (a historian's diet consists of coffee and anything edible near you.) And of course, the bloke decides to rub it in by kissing him downwards, from his neck to his navel. Because really, this is the best time to do so.

Fun fact: When you're having sex, you're brain doesn't shut down. On the contrary, it goes into overdrive. He's got all these ridiculous nonsensical ideas going on while Desmond is unbuttoning his pants. He's thinking about his paper, the Codex he's going to get, the way Desmond tends to rub his nose when he's nervous and when the mouth wraps around him, all slick heat, he's thinking about that time they were at the apartment's rooftop. They were talking nonsense, just like what's passing through his head in that instant. He hisses, hips jerking up, and he thinks about that one time Desmond almost choked on a cup of water, laughing so hard with Becca hitting him on the back. With that tongue rolling around him, that bloody throat constricting him, he's thinking about Ibn'La-Ahad but he doesn't know why.

That wonderful mouth comes to a halt too soon (along with the stupid thought vomit. There's seriously no other way to name it) but any complaining stops when he sees the condom being opened and Desmond's jeans being removed. His heart is hammering in his chest so fast because _that can't possible fit_. Is it audible?

Hello, heart, yes, I know you're there. If you'd kindly shut up, it'd be appreciated.

Now see, this is the exact part where it goes odd. He's panicking, wondering just how much it'll burn (or hurt. What if it's searing pain? He'll bail if it entitles that), when instead of wearing the condom himself, Desmond puts it on Shaun. While he stupidly watches Desmond readying them both (he's sure he's doing his ever famous Goldfish Impersonation), he's thinking that he actually didn't expect this. By the standing they have, he thought the one doing the... uh, _penetrating_ would be Desmond. Not that he's complaining. This means he can actually goad that _he_ shagged the American. Instead of just watching and keeping his mouth shut, his mouth decides to finally make some other noise apart from panting and moaning.

"W-What are you bloody doing?"

Years of amassing an impressive vocabulary and this is what he spews? His family would be so _proud._ The wanker, as always, doesn't answer, just smiles and straddles him. He's then being guided into tight warm heat and _jesus christ bloody hell._ A hand can never compare to this. They're dead still, Desmond panting, looking a bit uncomfortable, but before Shaun can ask anything he's moving. It's too bloody slow, but it's so bloody good and his hands find purchase in those hips, vile tempting bones just protruding slightly from the skin, the muscles flexing, moving as he's being ridden.

Are you reading this right?

Because obviously, this has to be the amalgamation of every single bloody wet dream he's had for the past months. It has to be some sort of dream, or a hallucination, because he's the one doing the fucking; he's the one feeling the heat around him, tight and wonderful; he's the one digging his fingers into tanned skin; he's the one making Desmond _moan_. You know that talk about paces and how they suddenly turn frenzied? That one is true. But see, that's because you're not close to the goal. When you're taking a test, the last five minutes are no longer under your control. You just want to finish, you're desperate so you do whatever as quickly as you can. Sex is kinda like that. They both start slow, restrained, but controlled and it's fine. He's feeling this strange sort of tingling when the scarred man (oh, his mouth isn't the only thing scarred. We _are_ discussing his torso, you perverts) starts speeding up, holding to Shaun's thighs to help himself. He doesn't know exactly when it starts, but when it does, _it's glorious._

This is the time your brain truly goes blank.

The talk about stars is bull, but the little white spots you see behind your eyes because of the sheer intensity is true. That's exactly why they call them stars. So in a way, it's true, but it's bullshit. The weight on top of him for the first ten seconds is comforting, and then it gets annoying after the last bits of his orgasm fade away (also called afterglow. That one's not bullshit either. Kinda like an after-orgasm, just not as intense, kiddies). They untangle from each other, with a hiss and a wince (poetry, not pretty, but ah well) and they 're staring at the cracks in the apartment's ceiling.

"We're sticky."

Desmond looks at him, with his dorky smile and his tired eyes. He could be a model. Maybe he is, within one of his bloody weird jobs.

"We just fucked and the first thing you say is that? Son, I am disappoint."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Becca can tell you."

There's a groan after this little smart comment. What is with this man and Rebecca? (Not dating. Last time Lucy joked about them dating they began gagging. Something about bromance only. He still didn't get it.) He wants to clean up. He really does. But now that they're on the bed, and he's warm, and sleepy, and maybe tired (sex is indeed a strenuous activity), he doesn't want to. Not now.

"...When we wake up, I expect us to be clean."

There's a kiss to his shoulder and Desmond's arms wrap around him (along with his legs. You don't want to know about the tickling sensation. Just, _no_.) The glasses are finally taken off and placed in the little table besides the bed.

"Yes, Master."

"Really funny."

* * *

Desmond's eyes snapped open. Had Shaun been awake, he'd been startled to see them shine an eerie gold. He sat up and smelled the air, the scent weakly but perceivably there. He snarled. What was _he_ doing here _?_ As quickly and quietly as he could, he got out of bed and dressed. Before he exited the room, he stopped and stared at the redhead, door half-way closed.

If he found out...

He glared. No, not yet. Maybe later. But if he knew _now..._

The door was gently shut, along with the front one as he stepped out into the cold, and straight into the person originating the scent. He was walking in slow circles about the street, mumbling and muttering to himself.

"Sixteen!"


	7. My Name Carries 7 Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Are you reading this right?_

_Run away, be quick, don't look back_

 _The Pisaca, it follows, will surely attack_

 _Feeds on death, life and sanity_

 _Leaves no place for respect, neither for vanity_

* * *

-so sure one of these days Desmond will finally get to his senses and kill me. I deserve to die. We deserve to die. The truth lies deep within us, inside our hearts, the veins carry it and we must eat the truth from other people to keep our souls open.

 _How much do you know about the moon?_

He screams at me. It's for my own good. We float through time like wraiths searching for redemption but we're allowed none. He hits me. It's for my own good. I didn't mean to hurt them. They screamed even louder than him and it hurt my ears so and I just had to make them stop, these monsters, had to make them stop, so I did. The truth slips from their gaping necks, their flowing stomachs and I feel so thirsty. No matter how much water I drink, how I beg him to stop, it stays without us and demands truth.

 _The average distance from Earth to the Moon is 384,403 kilometers (238,857 miles). The actual_   
_... . -.- distance varies over the course of the orbit of the moon_

It feels constricting, inside my own body, and I cry and I beg and I pray and he's besides me, and he murmurs in I have no idea, but the tone. Oh, the tone, so sweet, so gentle, and I cling and I cry harder and I beg for forgiveness, because I did it again, ripped the truth from another monster, cool hands on burning forehead soft lips on sweaty skin. I'm burning for my sins. Am I forgiven? Tell me that you love me, Lucy.

 _The Moon is the Earth's satellite, revolving around it about once every 29.5 days.  
_... . -.- -..- / ... . -.- / -.- - ..-

Lucy? She's so little. She's only twenty-something. So fragile, have to keep her safe or Ezio gets angry, just like an eagle falling down on a rabbit, claws rip rip rip, flesh and fur leave, eat the meat, drink the truth. It's for my own good. My own good. I love you, deeply, truly do. I hate you, with every atom in my body. My head hurts, you say it's fine. One more time, just one more _run as fast as you can!_ I hide my truth, I drink it, I see deep inside. Lucy, oh Lucy. I hate you so much, with my heart, with my soul. I'll always keep you safe, I promise, I'm so sorry, I hate you, say it to me, repeat it, please, tell me _you fucking son of a bitch you did this to_ that you hate me too.

 _The Moon has a mass of 7.3477 × 1022 kg, a volume of 2.1958 × 1010 km3, and an equatorial circumference of 10,921 km._

I hurt _ _.-. .-.. . .- ... . / .-.. .. ... - . -. / - - / - .__ I hurt so much. Desmond? Desmond please, I hate you please. Tell Altair I love him, that I wish he'd die, I wish he'd burn in hell, like I burn inside my shell, my fires of damnation and self-justification Ezio, him, love him too, fuck him, fuck them. Desmond? Lucy? Do you remember? You promised you'd let me out. Gold lies in cotton mouths. I hurt so much. It's for my own good. I'm on a bed _a cot, explosions outside, the Germans are winning_ burning and she's here. Lucy, oh Lucy. My savior, little lamb, she cares for me, always, just like he used to, just like he does. He's besides me, cold hands, freezing, death's hands. Please make the fire stop, Desmond. _Please don't hurt me! Oh God please, put the gun down! No, no, no!_

 _Faith is an organic illusion, a harmonic coincidence._

They overlap. The truths, the times, the legacies. Years and centuries, people and places, muddled together, it happens to him sometimes, he forgets too, just like I do, sometimes, it scares me. He speaks different, acts different, _you're not you, please think about it, just please don't shoot me, the arrow sails, the blood, the truth the_ and sometimes I wonder, who am I, where am I, what is this, why is this happening to me, someone please, tell me. It hurts. It's for my own good.

 _\- ... / - ... .- -. -.- / -. - -.. -..- / -.- - ..- / -.-. .- -. / .-. . .- -.. / - ... .. ... -..- / -.- - ..- / ... .- ...- . / - - / .-.. .. ... - . -. / -... . ..-. - .-. . / .. - .-. ... / - - - / .-.. .- - ._

The air feels so good. I needed to go out. Desmond said no, Lucy said no, but I need it, so much. The moon, _the moon can fuck the tide of the earth, it's going away as we speak_ is right there, in the sky, the same, always the same. She watches _as I raise the knife over her, please don't do this_ over us, always the same, never changing. The cold air on my clothes, the hard granite beneath my feet, the snow, such beatuiful snow falling slowly and-Wait, did you smell that? I stop, smell, hear, touch, sense. Here, he was here, Desmond's scent, follow it, follow the scent, sand and blood and wine and sweat. Here this roof, sitting here, looking where? Rush out, follow it, to here, this place, his smell, strong and around this building, mixed with another, tea and old books and ink and _truth, warm, hunger, eat, rip, tear find it_ , go in ignore the other scents, follow up, follow-the door. Can't pass through it. Please let me in.

 _The Moon has an atmosphere so tenuous as to be nearly vacuum, with a total mass of less than 10 metric tons._

"Sixteen!"

Stop. I turn and look and he's there, with his smell of sands long gone, wine sorely missed, blood, sweat and tears.

"What are you doing here?"

"I-I..." Don't know. had to follow, had to, needed to, the other smell, so sweet, so alluring, "W-W-Was thir-th-thirsty."

"Not here. C'mon, let's go somewhere else."  
... .- ...- . / -.- - ..-

"B-B-But this... here there's-I m-mean, the scent, I, I, foll-followed, _it smells so good_."

Glaring now, from black to gold, stern. I hiss, feel panic bubling, tears stinging, frustration, sadness _paranoia, Abstergo has been looking for us run!_

 _"Sixteen,_ " Voice, tone stern, steely, I snarl. _Altair._ "Let's go somewhere else. You can't eat from here."  
-... . . -. / .-. . .- -.. .. -. -. / -.-. .-.. - ... . .-.. -.- ..-..

* * *

 _You, the one reading this*_

 _I live my life in swinged emotion_

 _Terrified by the sun and the motions_

 _Of Pale claws and teeth asunder_

 _Oh, mercy, oh shame, PLEASE NO I SURRENDER!_

0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1

 _No mercy given to the victim_

 _Which cried in vain at what was inflicted_

 _Poor thing, such a fuck up, he should've listened_

 _Should've stayed away away, but now imprisoned_

 _Are you reading this right?*_

 __

* * *

Whine and whimper, nervous. It's so cold, I'm so thirsty, I'm so hungry, please, please. I scream, run away, get away he's behind me I can sense him dear God please have mercy don't let him catch me please go, faster, run run RUN!

"SIXTEEN!"

Just run, just keep going, just go, don't turn, run away _the French are close, keep going, have to give this, the package, have to warn them_ keep screaming, white fear running through my veins, then impact, scream louder, thrash, get away, kick, snarl, tumble, bite, scratch _gasp-!_

Cold hands, frozen, death's hands around my neck. No more screams, just choked gurgles, desperate inhalations, press, feel the claws digging into flesh. Tears, stinging, so many. Sobs. Sobbing. I'm so sorry. It's for my own good. Then, freedom.

I curl in on myself, small shelter, turn away from him, tremblin, crying, wailing. _Please don't hurt me_. Knuckles, soft, cool, touch my face, lips, a voice, a whispered hush, someone over me, comforting.

"It's ok."

 _Desmond._ I cling to him, cry harder, louder, shaking. I'm so hungry. He holds me, rocks me, hushes me, tell me, over and over.

"It's ok."

My savior, the love of my life, my sworn enemy.

"C'mon, let's get you home. I'll get you somethin to eat."

I'm so tired... So sleepy...

 _He killed me long ago._

 __

* * *

 _Open your eyes. There's someone humming, hand petting my head. Comfort. _Home_. I bury my face in the cloth, the slow rising and falling, the heartbeat, slow and faint, almost unnoticeable. Listen to the tune. Peace and tranquility. This is for my own good._

"Hey."

Blink, come back. Look up into worried black, frown and sadness. Feel a cool rag across your forehead and sigh as your eyes close again, Lucy's touch as soothing as always.

"How're you feeling, Sixteen?"

Give a little whimper, hold what little warmth is close. Feel the hand, the rag, the blade, cool and soothing through your forehead, taking away the sweat, the tears.

"He's running a fever again. Did he get stressed when you brought him over?"

"It was kinda hard for him _not_ to get stressed, but he was trying to get to the apartment."

Voices, they swim about. It's so nice. This is for my own good. This is alright.

"What, Becca and Shaun's apartment? Did he follow you?"

"I found him there afterwards, but this is the second time he's tried to get there."

Sleep. I haven't slept in three months. Body won't allow it. But today, just today, eyes close and sleep flows in.

* * *

 _Allukah, Picasa, lie to me so_

 _.- ... .- - / ... . / -.. .. -.. / - - / - . / .- .- ... / ... - .-. .-. .. -... .-.. . .-.-.- / .. - / .. ... / ... - / ... .- -.. /_

 _Tell me I'm pretty, call me a whore_

* * *

Nightmares. Nightmares. Screams, blood, blades, guns, horses, guts, carnage, confusion, pain, pain, all around all engulfing everywhere nowehre where am i please someone it hurts the fever the change the body the truth twist rip suck blood blood blood throw it up disgusting delicious keeps you awake alive half-way in betwen worse with me i amthe, the the-!

...

 _Oh, oh my God. I-I'm clear again. You! The one reading this! You have to listen to me! These little lucid moments I have, they vanish quickly, so I'll make it quick. I'll leave clues for you, you have to hurry or the cycle will repeat itself! The Codex is key, that's why he's searching for it. The Truth is hidden inside it, but we haven't found it. We need it! It will help with Lucy's research! You have to tell the British man that he, that he..._

He...

He hurts so much. Screaming, yelling, agonizing. Hands on him, soothing words, the cool hands, patting him like a newborn child. Shushing, rocking him back and forth, murmuring assurances to him. Desmond is his savior and his demon. Cares for him. Is it pity? Is it love? He doesn't really care, just clings to it, because this is the only contact he gets, the only affection. And sometimes, I'm so sure one of these days Desmond will finally get to his senses-

* * *

 _What is Allukah?_

 _What is fear?_

 _What is Picasa?_

 _What is pain?_


End file.
